War and Wings
by Praxy5
Summary: An innocent game of Truth-or-Dare forces Ratchet to recollect a time during the war shortly after the destruction of Nova Cronum. A time when he worked as a simple field medic for the Iacon Clinic and Triage Facility. A time when the very fabric of Cybertronian culture and society was being ravaged by the advancing Decepticon army. A time...when he was in love.
1. Chapter 1: Truth or Dare

Saturday.

Ratchet used to hate Saturdays.

Humans, for reasons that the seasoned medic could not fathom, lumped seven of their solar cycles into a unit of time called a "week," the first five cycles of which were mostly devoted to education, work or a combination of the two. The last two cycles of the week, colloquially known as Saturday and Sunday, seemed to function as a sort exaggerated holiday, whereby the humans would, on the whole, abstain from work or school and recreate in various ways.

Jack, Miko, and Rafael-the human children who had, inadvertently, stumbled into the middle of their millennia-old, civil war with the Decepticons-were no different from other humans, except that their recreational activities spanned the gauntlet from quiet calibration assists-as was often the case with Jack-to Miko's cacophonously irritating "music."

The latter of which there was no escaping given the layout of their base, a former missile silo.

Ratchet's research required solitude, long periods of quiet contemplation whereby he could focus his intellect. One couldn't very well manipulate ancient Verio-wave equations, or ground bridge vorticity-flux simulations while distracted.

The humans, in his optics, were a potential liability; a veritable petro-thorn in one's carapace. They were small and weak, gnats in a war between giants. By protecting them, they were putting their own lives in danger. Was a human life honestly worth more than that of a Cybertronian?

Before the scraplet incident, he would have vehemently argued for the later.

Now, the medic condescended to tolerate their presence.

For the most part.

WHAM! CRA-THUNK!

The ground rocked violently beneath Ratchet's trods, as if someone had just spike-lobbed an entire aircraft carrier.

A round of riotous laughter followed, human and Cybertronian.

Gritting his dental-plates, the medic narrowed his optics and tried his best to refocus on the equation that he'd been working on for the last two weeks-a recipe for synthetic energon-though it still shook wildly along with the rest of the computer.

This was going to be a long weekend.

"Hey, Ratchet!" Miko's voice called out after several blessed minutes of silence.

The medic sighed. "Yes, Miko?" He replied after a moment, his optics still glued to the computer screen.

"We're playing a game."

"Yes, I've noticed." He replied with a sarcastic chuckle.

"Would you like to play?"

"No."

"Aww, you're no fun."

"That's right." The medic replied absently, pouring over a new batch of calculations.

"Hmph, fine."Miko stumped off in a huff, her footfalls heavy enough to imitate Bulkhead.

Ratchet smirked and then shook his head. _At least she stormed off somewhere else_, he observed dryly.

For a time after, much to Ratchet's surprise, the humans and their guardians were remarkably quiet, except for an occasional-yet tolerable-din of merriment.

The console beeped faintly as another set of calculations appeared. Ratchet stepped back from the station and rubbed at his chin plate, cross-checking the numbers with those that he had computed using his own processors. Something was off, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

_I wonder if..._

"BWEEEEP! BWoooooWWwww!"

Ratchet's thoughts evaporated, as did the equations that he had just been processing.

Gone.

Startled out of him by Bumblebee's sudden, and unexpectedly ridiculous outburst-the electronic sounds emanating from his voice synthesizer translating as "I am the mop king."

More laughter.

Now genuinely angry, Ratchet left his console and stormed out into the open. "WHAT IN PRIMUS' NAME IS GOING...?"

Ratchet's voice cut off in mid-sentence; his optics widened and his jaw dropped.

What he saw, was not what he expected, to say the least.

Bumblebee stood as still as a statue in the open space immediately adjacent to the raised platform used by the humans for recreation. Draped across his helm like some sort of vegetative overgrowth was one of the large mops that Ratchet used to tidy up the floor in the medical lab. Two mops, held motionless in his flattened digits like undersized _geroths, _made the young scout look absolutely ridiculous...not to mention highly mischievous as he stared up at the old medic with wide, surprised optics.

"Maybe I shouldn't ask..." Ratchet muttered after a moment of startled silence.

"It's a game called 'Truth or Dare.'" Rafael explained, gesturing toward a large, square scrap of metal that had been fitted with a straight length of hose. "It's fun. You should play a few rounds with us." He smiled; his expressive eyes-made seemingly larger, magnified as they were by his large, red-rimmed glasses-beamed hopefully up at the old medic.

Though Ratchet respected Rafael more than he did the other humans-the young boy was remarkably adept with human computer technology-the medic's pride reached his voice box a step ahead of his common sense. "Preposterous!" He exclaimed with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Why would I waste my time with something unproductive like that?"

Rafael lowered his head, and rubbed the back of his neck with a free hand, his lips twisting into a dejected frown.

The expression did not go unnoticed by Ratchet, and his optics widened slightly as the realization swept over him. Silently, he lowered his head and averted his gaze. There was no point in trying to take the words back; they had already been broadcast for all to hear. Instead, he did what he always did in situations like these: buried the regret in a far distant corner of his processor and removed from his steel countenance all traces of emotion.

The humans and his colleagues, undoubtedly, saw him as a crotchety-some might say senile-Cybertronian hard-aft; far be it from him to tarnish that image.

Muttering unintelligibly, the medic turned and started for his console.

Halfway to his destination, he hesitated. Then, turning his head, he looked over his shoulder at the youthful muddle.

Miko and Bulkhead were talking in hushed whispers-even so, the Asian youth still gesticulated wildly as she spoke, pointing in his direction. No doubt they were discussing Ratchet's behavior; they didn't notice him, however. Jack and Arcee were similarly engaged, though the manner of their discussion was much more subdued-delicate, even-like a conversation between close friends.

_Or partners_, Ratchet thought before he could stop himself. That, if anything was preposterous. And yet...

He shook his head at the incredulity of the thought; he was probably just reading into things too deeply.

Rafael and Bumblebee were another matter, however.

The canary-colored Autobot was crouching next to his companion, his face a strange amalgam of concern and sympathy. Gently, the yellow mech nudged Raf's shoulder; a gesture of comfort in their society.

The expression of Cybertronian emotion was complex to say the least, even considering the limited facial servos that some possessed, but Ratchet had to bow to the subtle nuances that humans exhibited on a daily basis. No one else in all of the galaxy could possibly manipulate so many muscles to appear _forlorn_. In fact, with twice as many synonyms as the myriad of emotions they could exhibit, they spent practically all their waking hours emoting something.

And even with Ratchet's basic knowledge of human biology - he would have to verify the ratio of human to Cybertronian facial expressions - he could tell Rafael was obviously upset.

The medic cringed as a wave of guilt bared its steely fangs at him, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't beat it back.

Sighing, he turned away from the comfort of his console and slowly made his way back to the others.

Rafael was the first to notice."Ratchet?" He wondered, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Look..." Ratchet began meeting Rafael's gaze. "I'll play a few rounds."

"O.M.G! Really?" Miko squeaked, excitedly, cutting him off. "Leave it to Raf to twist Ratchet's arm."

The medic turned his head and glared at her the same way one might glare at someone who had just vented in the middle of a crowded room. "As I was saying," He continued, "I'll play a few rounds, but you must all _promise_ me that _afterwards,_ you'll take your fun elsewhere. And by elsewhere, I mean, outside." He added, quickly, and turning his head he considered each of them. "I'm working on something that requires _extensive_ concentration, and I can't very well focus if you're going to caper around like a bunch of over-energized ruffians."

"I'm all for it." Bulkhead chimed in, a grin deforming his plow-sized mouth.

"Yeah! Rock and roll!" Miko cheered. She and Bulkhead exchanged a high-five.

"I have to agree with Bulkhead and Miko," Arcee concurred, smirking viciously. "It's not every day we get to see Ratchet...unbar."

The medic turned a nervous optic on the blue femme. The tone of her voice and the connotations attached to it warranted explanation. "Just what kind of game is this?"

"Don't let her worry you, Ratchet." Jack interjected calmly. "We don't play it the way some people do."

"That's not reassuring."

"Don't worry, Doc 'Bot, it's easy." Miko insisted with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You see this spinner? Well, someone spins it," with a flick of her wrist, she sent the spinner spinning. After a moment, it stopped; it was pointing at Bumblebee. "Whoever it lands on has to choose 'truth' or 'dare.'" She looked up Ratchet and narrowed her dark eyes. "You following?"

"Let me guess," The medic drawled, sarcastically. "Either I divulge something personal or risk cavorting around with a mop on my head." At this, he cast a sidelong glance at Bumblebee, who merely smirked with his optics in response.

Jack smiled and looked over at Miko. "He follows."

"Fine," Ratchet consented. "But this solidifies your _absence."_ He fixed them all with a stern glare. "Agreed?"

"Agreed!" Everyone else replied in unison.

"Soooo, who's turn was it?" Miko asked, rubbing her hands eagerly.

"Bwwooeep." Bumblebee replied, enthusiastically, pointing at himself.

"Ok, spin it."

With amazing manual dexterity for a creature of his size, the yellow scout set the spinner in motion with a flick of his index finger.

It stopped on Miko.

"Bo-yah!" She exclaimed pumping her fist into the air, enthusiastically. "I choose 'dare.'"

"Why am I _not_ surprised?" Jack commented, dryly.

Bumblebee crossed his arms and tilted his head, his metallic brows drawing down slightly over his optics; a unique whirring sound resonated from his voice synthesizer, his approximation of a contemplative "hmmmm." After several moments of careful thought, the muscle car turned his head, focused his blue optics on Miko, and explained his idea using a series of excited beeps, chirps, chirrs, and expressive hand gestures.

"What did he say?" Miko asked, curiously.

Rafael looked from Miko to Bulkhead, and finally back to Bumblebee before speaking. "It seems 'Bee was watching some old kung-fu movies with Bulkhead the other day. You know," He pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee kind of stuff. He wants to see you try something like that."

The Asian youth smiled wickedly. "Ha! That's easy."

"Really?" Rafael exclaimed.

"Hey, I'm from Japan, remember." She replied, confidently, crossing her arms over her chest."We, like, totally invented martial arts."

"Uh..." Jack began, but when he saw her raised eyebrow - as if to say, 'you wanna make something of it?' - he wisely held his tongue.

Casting about for another moment and seeing no further detractors, she nodded to herself and got into position. This involved much stretching and a good deal of floor space; she certainly didn't want to inadvertently kick Raf whom she had been sitting next to.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her arms as if she was about to start an Olympic floor routine and then proceeded to flip wildly about from one foot to another, her legs spinning about her head. Bouncing off the nearest wall, she planted a hand on the floor and then somersaulted into a tuck-and-roll that brought her upright and beaming to her adoring crowd.

And they didn't disappoint. Even the old medic gave her some sedate applause.

Bumblebee trilled happily.

"That was great, Miko!" Bulkhead exclaimed, clapping his hands.

The female youth beamed a proud smile up at her guardian before returning to her seat.

"Not bad, Miko." Rafael concurred. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"My school back in Japan." She replied airily, like it was no, big deal. "Gym class."

"Man, I wish they would teach us stuff like that at our school." Jack replied. "Gym would be a lot more fun."

"Yeah, no kidding." Rafael replied, thoughtfully.

"So, who's next?" Miko asked with greedy anticipation, hovering over the spinner as she rubbed her hands together mischievously. Her previous routine forgotten, she ignored her shortness of breath all so she could claim another victim in the name of fun.

Raising one eyebrow, she gave the length of hose a hearty spin.

Eyes glued to the surface, the hose made one languorous rotation and pointed directly at Ratchet.

"Wonderful," he replied with obvious annoyance.


	2. Chapter 2: Cornered

Ratchet suddenly became the focus of every expectant optic and eye in the silo. Lowering his head he shifted, uncomfortably, on his trods as if physically encumbered by the weight of their stares.

"So, what will it be Doc 'Bot?" Miko asked, coyly, her hand covering the broad grin that had all but engulfed her narrow face.

At first, the medic could only glare down at the tiny human, his optics seemingly dead to all emotion. Finally, he crossed his arms and straightened his posture, as if to reinstate a small fragment of his shattered dignity. "'Truth.'" He muttered with a sigh.

At this, everyone seemed to let out a collective whimper of disappointment.

_"What?"_ Ratchet demanded, incredulously. "You _actually_ thought that I would allow myself to be made a fool of?"

Everyone's silence in the aftermath of his rebuttal suggested that they had.

The red-and-white mech sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose plate. "Look, just ask your question so that I can get back to my work."

"Ok, fine. Be a party pooper." Miko grumbled. "I had my cell phone ready and everything."

"Sorry to disappoint." Ratchet replied with no sincerity whatsoever.

"Ok...question." The Asian youth muttered, thoughtfully, tilting her head. After several moments of deliberation, she cocked an eyebrow and glanced, sidelong, at the mech, her thin lips stretching into a sly smirk. "Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

Ever since the game had singled him out, Ratchet's processors had attempted to identify and answer every question he might be asked. He had known from the very start that he would pick 'truth' - the thought of actually rollicking about was as preposterous as it was repellant - which had eliminated a whole host of possibilities for embarrassment, and this had allowed him to focus on the task at hand: how to avoid verbal humiliation. He had considered everything from the tactless - like asking his age - to the useless - like what music he found enjoyable - to the scientific - which he could answer in his sleep. And he had prepared himself in all cases to keep his aplomb.

Leave it to Miko to ask the one question that would cause him to stare at her like a petro-rabbit caught in laser light.

"Wait...what?!" Ratchet sputtered, raising both hands in defensive confusion. "What kind of question is that?"

"The kind of question that requires an answer." Miko replied with her usual sass.

The medic lowered his arms, his optics blinking slowly as he struggled to regain his cool.

_Of all the questions to ask..._

"Could it be?" Arcee's voice simpered.

Ratchet cringed at the implication and raised his optics to meet her intense, ultraviolet stare. The two-wheeler's faceplate beamed a broad smile, and her brow-ridges were raised in a manner consistent with intrigue.

She knew.

No doubt the others would be just as quick to the uptake.

The medic stifled a sigh, and adjusted the splay of his trods. "If you must know," He began in a tone that he hoped was reminiscent of his usual mannerisms. "Once. During the war."

"Really?" Miko wondered, enthusiastically running up to him, her brown eyes wide with adoration.

Ratchet blinked rapidly as he looked down at her, surprise evident in his features. Part of him had expected laughter-the human femme never seemed to take anyone or anything seriously, after all.

But now...

He suppressed a smile; Humans truly were unpredictable.

"So?" Miko asked, her voice gently prodding the medic from his thoughts.

"'So', what?" Ratchet replied. "I answered your question, didn't I?"

"But you can't just leave it there!" She affected an instructory pose-hand on one hip and right arm outstretched as if to profess knowledge-and added in a comically deep bass replete with stone-like mannerisms. " 'I'll just throw out a tidbit bomb and go back to my nerdy science stuff, because only I do any real work around here.' "

Bulkhead snorted with laughter and Bumblebee trilled wildly, clapping his hands.

Correction: Humans were unpredictable and sometimes _incredibly_ irritating.

Miko continued beaming up at him expectantly but also to see if she had, as the humans would say, 'gotten his goat.'

Ratchet found the whole interchange bizarre. It was as if the young human was respectfully inquiring about his past, while at the same time being her usual exasperatingly inquisitive self; an odd and unusual juxtaposition if there ever was one.

As his primary processors considered her reaction, his secondaries had been cogitating millions of retorts, everything from the angry to the silly - could he somehow articulate his limbs into a crude approximation of her pose and mock her back? - but nothing held energon.

Also-though he would never admit to it-part of him briefly entertained the thought of ground-bridging her back to Tokyo, as he had so desperately wanted to do upon first meeting her.

Optimus _was_ away from the base, after all.

As amusing as would be to do so, he had to admit that hers was a valid question, and he had agreed to play along, albeit begrudgingly so.

Realizing he was cornered, the seasoned medic sighed and sat down on one of the large, storage crates that dotted the floor of the silo. He took a moment to gather himself.

But Miko, being the person that she was, was relentless - annoyingly persistent.

"So, Doc; you 'gonna spill the beans or what?" Miko asked, jarring the medic from his thoughts.

"Okay!" He huffed, his optics narrowing. "," he began and all necks extended as the listeners tried to move in closer.

And then a thought struck him."This guarantees your silence for the rest of today _and_ tomorrow!"

"But you said-" Jack began and everyone seemed to grimace at the proposition.

It was Miko, however, that jumped to his aid.

"For a tale of juicy romance, I would be quiet for a whole week!" Miko declared.

At this everyone laughed-even Ratchet, though his was a great deal more reserved than the others. Suffice to say, that the tension that had pervaded the silo up until that moment all but evaporated.

Miko colored at all the disbelieving mirth, and scuffed at the metal floor with her boot. "Okay...I would if I could, but you'll get two days out of me, for sure."

Ratchet allowed a soft smile to play across his features. "I'll hold you to that, at the very least."

"Scouts honor." Miko replied, holding up her hand. She then turned and hurried quickly to her seat, plopping down heavily next to Raphael.

A collective silence fell across the group as they settled in, optics and eyes looking first at one another, and then focusing on the red-and-white medic, who sat forward on his crate, arms resting comfortably against his femoral plates. His aquamarine-hued optics gazed thoughtfully into the distance.

There was a lot to this particular story, after all, and his processors diligently sought out the data buried deep within his mind.

Places not seen in eons...

People...

Emotions...

A sad smile flitted across his lips as he raised his optics.

Loved ones...

Softly, his voice hardly a whisper, Ratchet began his narrative.

"A long time ago, I was in love with a Decepticon named Io."


	3. Chapter 3: Shield

"Woah. Woah. Woah!" Bulkhead exclaimed, holding his hands out in front of him as if to physically bar the medic from continuing with his story. "You were sweet on a 'Con?" He demanded, his expression one of open revulsion.

"A _reformed_ 'Con."Ratchet corrected, haughtily, "One of only a handful to realize there was more to the civil war than just differing 'ideologies'."

Optics still troubled, Bulkhead accepted Ratchet's statement with a slight nod of his head, all the while lowering his arms to rest.

Ratchet considered the larger mech's reaction with a sympathetic optic and nodded, understandingly. "Before the war, Megatron rose to power because he appealed to those that literally had nothing to lose. The lower caste: Gladiators, factory laborers, drones and others that were fed up with the fixed social order; he spoke so compellingly on issues of reform that some followed him without question." The medic paused briefly; his expression darkened. "Many believed that the only way to change society was to literally start over...with Megatron at the helm. Everything else, including the sanctity of life and preservation of our culture, was of secondary importance. Others followed along only because they were swayed by his charismatic speeches, not because they held his philosophy to spark."

"But..." Rafael interjected, softly. "From what we've seen, Decepticons don't seem to care about anything other than following Megatron."

Ratchet closed his optics and nodded grimly. "Even though he claimed to be fighting for others from the start, Megatron's only concern was gaining power for himself...by any means necessary."

"Like Hitler during World War II." Jack commented with a frown.

Ratchet looked thoughtful for a moment. Optimus-even far removed from his origins as an Iacon data clerk-still harbored a deep fascination for history, so much so that upon their arrival on Earth, he compiled a data meme of every significant event in human history as a primer for the rest of the group.

Judging from the subtle looks of questioning on the face-plates of his companions, Ratchet figured he was the only member of the team to have actually read it.

And to say that Jack was "spot on"-as the human saying went-would have been an understatement.

"Exactly." Ratchet confirmed.

Jack's frown deepened. "So, your girlfriend...was she...?" He hesitated, seemingly not wanting to ask anything untoward. "Did she join Megatron because she really wanted to or because she was duped?"

"The latter," Ratchet answered, gently. "Along with millions of others."

"But what does _history_ have to do with girlfriends?" Miko asked, obviously bored.

The red-and-white mech sighed, and shook his head. It was times like this when he could see just why the young human did so poorly in school.

Deciding not to become exasperated, Ratchet replied with a Cybertronian saying: "'In order to understand someone's actions, you have to understand their infrastructure.'"

Miko mouthed "Oh." and sheepishly sat back down.

For a moment, Ratchet wondered if the human femme actually understood what he meant by his statement as it, and most of his earlier relations, were intended to justify Io's reformation to Bulkhead. With a shake of his head, he decided that her comprehension was irrelevant. After all, the young human only seemed interested in the relationship he had with Io, not the history behind her defection.

Suddenly, Ratchet's optics brightened, and the medic had to use every ounce of willpower he had to restrain the smirk that so desperately wanted to claim his face. Though not truly vindictive at spark, Ratchet's processors had inadvertently stumbled upon a way that he could enact a passive-aggressive sort of revenge against the young human; payback, in a sense, for her youthful word-probe.

History.

And lots of it.

Still, actively, suppressing said smirk, Ratchet continued with his narrative...exactly where he left off.

"Let's see, where were we?" The medic felt a twinge of fierce pleasure in his spark when he saw Miko's shoulders droop just a bit. "That's right," He added for good measure. "Megatron's rise to power."

All internal silliness aside, Ratchet quickly switched gears, slipping back into story mode. "Megatron, working his clever schemes, padded his ranks faster than we ever could have imagined. However, some on Cybertron were not so easily committed to his cause...or ours, for that matter. Though only a small percentage of the population, Megatron felt that these 'neutrals' could very well hamper his aspirations to megalomania, especially should they choose to side against him." He paused and allowed a sly smile to play across his features. "Which was exactly what happened during the Praxian Stalemate when his army was repelled by the citizens of Praxus.

"Frustrated by his failure, he resolved that anyone claiming neutrality had to either submit to his will or be pacified. And Nova Cronum-the 'Cradle of Cybertronian Intellect'-was the first to bear the brunt of this new form of warfare."

"I always wondered why Megatron chose Nova Cronum, of all cities." Arcee mused. "The citizens were scientists more than they were warriors."

"While that may have been true," Ratchet replied, darkly. "Megatron knew that millions more would rally to his cause if it were supported by world-renowned scientists and philosophers."

"So, what happened next?" Miko wondered, suddenly showing renewed interest. "Did they join the 'Cons?"

Ratchet shook his head. "No. The residents of the city held fast to their position of neutrality...and were slaughtered as a result."

"An entire city?" Rafael exclaimed.

The old medic nodded, slowly, his aquamarine gaze distant and unfocused. His not so verbose response to Rafael's question was all he could manage as a flood of memory data inundated his processors. Though he was not an active participant in that battle, he had been part of a medical task force that had the gruesome task of cataloging all of the casualties.

Eons later, it still pained him to remember.

"Ratchet?" Rafael's voice carried a note of concern.

The medic shook his head to clear his thoughts; his gaze however, remained distant. "Io...defected to our side shortly after Nova Cronum was destroyed."

There was a moment of silent contemplation among the listeners. Jack was the first to break the saturninity. "Why did she defect?" he asked, his voice soft and respectful.

"Nova Cronum was her hometown."

All of the listeners, 'Bots and humans alike, exchanged looks of surprise.

"Though she had originally sided with the Decepticons," The medic continued solemnly. "Her formers- I guess you would consider them parents," he added to the humans. "Were notable scholars in the city. In the aftermath of the battle, she..." he paused, searching for how to continue and still be tactful. "-began to question the ideology that she had sided with. If Megatron was willing to inflict such terrible suffering on neutrals, what was to stop him from doing the same to his own followers?"

"Scrap." Bulkhead swore, drawing the word out, slowly, as a wave of realization swept over him. "I'm sorry Ratchet, I didn't mean..."

"It's quite alright, Bulkhead." The medic replied with a light chuckle. "Ironically enough, I felt the same way when I first found out that I'd be serving alongside a former 'Con."

"So, how did you two meet?" Miko asked, unable to contain herself. "Ooooo!" The young human folded her arms up to her chest, her hands all but clenched under her chin. Her eyes were rapturous. After previous iterations of this particularly expressive gesticulation, Ratchet had been forced to ask; Raf had called this pose "the fan-girl squeal." "I bet you worked together! Was it love at first sight?"

"Dude, Miko. Let him tell his story." Jack insisted with a chuckle.

"But the suspense is killing me." She whined, quickly returning to her cross-legged sitting position, all the while dramatically allowing her arms to flop down into her lap.

Jack looked up at Ratchet and smiled, as if to say "please continue."

Though Ratchet returned the expression, a slightly more responsible section of his processor realized that he should probably cease belaboring the point-no matter how amusing it was to watch Miko fidget-and actually get on with the story that he had agreed to divulge.

Resolved, he turned his head and focused his intense aquamarine stare on the female human. "Io and I met in Iacon where I was stationed as a field medic." he began, his expression softening as he spoke. "She transferred to my unit as a shield."

At this pronouncement, all of the Autobots nodded in understanding; their human charges, however, seemed clueless.

Rafael voiced their collective ignorance by asking. "What's a shield?"

Optics widening, the red-and-white medic sat back, alarmed. _"What are they teaching children nowadays,_" He started to say and then thought better of it. An integral part of Cybertronian culture-at least after the start of the war-it was something he loftily assumed to be common practice throughout the galaxy.

Apparently, he was mistaken.

"A shield is both apprentice and guardian." He explained. "During the war, non-combat field professions such as construction, mining, and/or medicine bore high mortality rates. It was difficult, after all, to focus the entirety of one's attention on a single, important task due to the constant need to be mindful of one's surroundings. Attacks could come from any direction at any time, and even a single moment of distraction could very well prove lethal."

At this the medic seemed to roll his large shoulder caps, as if unnerved by something that only he could descry. When he continued, he did so in a voice that was-at least to a seasoned observer-crestfallen. "It didn't take long for our commanders to realize that they were burning through specialists faster than they could be educated, and so they began pairing them with soldiers.

"Though originally only assigned to protect, many soldiers took it upon themselves to learn the occupation of their charge so they could be of more use, especially in whatever down-time they experienced between field excursions. Thus, the concept of a shield was born."

"So," Rafael mused, thoughtfully. "Io protected you while you helped wounded soldiers on the battlefield, and she learned more about medicine?" He turned his large, expressive eyes toward the red-and-white mech. "It's just like a school, except with a really steep learning curve."

"That's correct." Ratchet replied with a nod and a soft smile. "As our world was consumed by war, the more gentle pursuits of getting an education free from distraction-" He cast a sidelong glance at Miko-the human femme was more easily distracted than a Praxian _vitose_-and corrected himself. "Free from risk of death...was no longer possible, and so the battlefield became the means by which we could train our successors."

"Cool!" Miko exclaimed. "School with _action!"_ She pumped her fist into the air with excitement.

Everyone stared at her, but Jack took it a step further and decided to say something. "So, Miko will get As if someone threatens to kill her daily. Got it."

"Hey, I'm just saying it would be more interesting." The Asian youth added in her own defense, eliciting a din of laughter from her human companions as well as from Bulkhead and Bumblebee. Arcee, on the other hand, seemed distracted. While she did smile at her friend's jocularity, the expression was short-lived, and before long, the entirety of her attention was focused on Ratchet.

At first, the femme seemed thoughtful. As the laughter began to die out, however, a modest smirk began to tug at the corners of her mouth. Stepping forward, still smirking, she asked. _"So...was_ it love at first sight?"

Ratchet and the others all turned their eyes and optics toward the two-wheeler.

"Not you too, Arcee." Jack admonished with a disapproving frown.

"I'm curious," She replied, shrugging her shoulder bearings. "He never answered Miko's question."

"That's right, Doc 'Bot." Miko purred, wagging her finger in his direction. "Give us the goods."

Ratchet sighed and shook his head; it was something he had been doing a lot as of lately. In fact, he was amazed he hadn't worn out the servos in his neck.

He couldn't deny the validity of Arcee's point-it was true that he had yet to answer Miko's question-but who could really hold him at fault? What, with all of Miko's jibes and his having to explain certain aspects of their culture to the humans, he was surprised to have gotten at least _this_ far.

And considering Arcee's expression-he could see an underlying seriousness in her glowing gaze-the seasoned medic found himself more at ease answering her and not Miko, even though they had both asked the same question.

In his optics, her curiosity carried more weight because for her, Ratchet's answer served no childish purpose.

Suppressing a smile, the medic answered. "No, not in the slightest. In fact, Io hated me at first." He paused, his gaze distant, thoughtful. "Though, in retrospect, I can honestly say that the rocky start to our relationship was mostly _my_ doing..."

"Well, you are a bit of a grouch," Miko offered, tactlessly.

Ratchet rolled his optics. This was turning out to be a long afternoon, indeed.

And unfortunately for him, it wasn't over yet. There was still a story to be told, and for Ratchet, it was a bittersweet remembrance.

The red-white-mech's optics flickered briefly with emotion, though his countenance was unperturbed.

His story...

Io's story...

Like thousands of other wartime accounts...

Ended...tragically.


	4. Chapter 4: Introductions

Figured I'd post the first three chapters as a test to see whether or not people would even be interested in a story such as this. Seeing as there were greater than 50 views in the first few hours, I figured so. :D

This chapter introduces two supporting characters: The aforementioned Io, and the HMO of the Iacon Clinic, Sergeant Crossarm. If you're interested in character artwork, I've posted a small selection of relevant art pieces on my deviant art page. Search for "War and Wings" or "Ratchet Prime fanfiction" to find one of my pieces.

There's also a fair amount of Cybertroinain terminology. Most of it is of my own creation, but some units of measurement-specifically units of time-are canon.

Units of time:

Astrosecond: .5 minutes; cycle: 1 minute; groon: 1 hour; breem: 8.5 minutes; solar cycle: 1 Cybertronian day; orn: 13 solar cycles; stellar cycle: one Cybertronian year; vorn: 83 stellar cycles

Units of length:

Mechanometer: Average Cybertronian stride length, equal to about 4 meters; toranometer: 10 mechanometers; tianometer: 100 mechanometers;

Enjoy!

* * *

Ratchet stood stiffly on the narrow Medevac platform that comprised the rear entrance to the Iacon Clinic and Triage Facility, feeling more than a bit out of place as he scanned the horizon through narrowed optics.

The clinic, Ratchet's "home away from home"-as he had most assuredly worked there long enough to consider it as such-was, until recently, overflowing with everything from streams of grievously wounded soldiers, to casual patients and their petty afflictions, to dozens of dedicated medics trying to keep the peace.

Today, however, was not one of those days.

With the lull in the war, the clinic was quiet; the days long and uneventful. Yet despite this, Ratchet couldn't see himself immersed in any other profession. Seeing as he was created for an entirely different purpose-medical technology repair, the old medic took pride in all aspects of his job, even clerical work-the kind most of his colleagues made fun of as menial and or demeaning. And the solitude that came with such tasks was a blissful reprieve from what he and his colleagues had been dealing with as of late.

His spark needed a rest from the grind, from the collective emotional trough that eroded deeper and deeper into one's psyche every time a patient succumbed from their wounds.

Which happened much more often than he would've liked.

Suppressing a sigh, Ratchet refocused on the horizon. As his optics tracked here and there, part of him couldn't help but wish he were back in his office working and not standing uselessly out here, in the stifling twilight that marked the beginning of Cybertron's _heli'cx_, waiting to meet his new shield in person.

_A new shield..._

Ratchet crossed his arms and frowned.

It wasn't that he was hostile toward the concept of a shield, or the lack of privacy that came from training one. He would be working with his shield every _groon_ of every solar cycle for however many stellar cycles were necessary to train the inexperienced 'Bot to his level of medical know-how.

On the contrary, Ratchet's present anxiety was a byproduct of fear.

The medic sighed, and lowered his optics, his expression haggard.

As much as it pained him to admit, he was afraid.

Afraid of the past...

Afraid of making the same terrible mistakes...

"Scrap, I hate evenings like this." He growled as a sudden wave of self-loathing stabbed at his spark.

Raising his optics, the medic glowered down at the city that stretched out below him. The whole situation-thoughts of his neglected work, impending assignment, and past regrets-galled him so much that he couldn't even appreciate the view offered by the platform, one considered by many to be the most spark-stirring in the entire city.

Consider: Iacon was as beautiful as it was ancient, and from the clinic's vantage point atop the Grand Oratory, Ratchet could, just by turning his head, take in all of the variously sized domes and spires that comprised the High Council Pavilion. And yet, instead of being moved, Ratchet only allowed himself to see the modern sector beyond-Iacon proper-where, in his estimation, geometry and function won out over Golden-Age elegance, giving the entire sector a 'rakish' appearance. He couldn't even acknowledge its striking contrast, decked out as it was in scintillating neon.

It didn't help matters that the sector was well known for its nightlife, and by default was the R & R hub for young students and soldiers looking for a good time. It also didn't help that the coruscating riot of Iacon Proper was set against a backdrop of thick haze, exhaust from the various factories and refineries that dominated the suborbital district.

It was like a window into Ratchet's spark, disagreement surrounding insecurity.

And beyond it, glimmers of hope-the radiant moat of the vast Sea of Light and the faint, flickering glow from the far distant cities of Uraya, Altihex, and Tagon-and behind him, the yawning darkness that marked the location of the once bustling city of Nova Cronum.

A sigh fluttered across his lips and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

It wasn't like he had much choice in the matter; as an experienced field medic it was his duty to pass his knowledge on to those that would, one day, come to replace him. In fact, he was surprised his C.O.s had allowed him to remain without a shield as long as he had.

It was a necessary evil, so-to-speak, a byproduct of the civil war that Megatron had plunged their race, so headlong, into.

So, despite whatever reservations and or trepidations assailed him, he figured he should at least attempt to make the best of the situation.

Behind him, his audio receptors picked up the sound of light, metallic footfalls.

Annoyingly familiar footfalls.

_Or not..._

Ratchet suppressed a sigh."Sergeant Crossarm." The medic turned and acknowledged his C.O. with a respectful nod of his helm. He kept condescension and mockery far from his voice...with a decent amount of effort.

At the mention of his name, the sergeant-a rare Autobot jet-all but preened, as if to say "it feels good to have a title."

With his narrow face built around two expressive, aquamarine optics-the same model and color as Ratchet's-his nose plate sporting a spire along with the swept-back panels comprising his helm, short and pointed audio receptors just behind his cheek plates, and a small, triangular chin plate, the sergeant wore an almost perpetual smirk.

_Makes sense he's a flyer,_ Ratchet thought with a disapproving frown.

"No need to be so formal, Ratchet," The younger mech drawled, arrogantly, moving to stand next to him. "Crossarm will do _just _as nicely."

"I'll keep that in mind, sergeant." Ratchet replied stiffly, evoking yet another smile and preen from his superior.

It was a game a privileged sparkling would play, pretending to debase oneself so that the social inferiors would be forced to 'remind' them of their high standing, and annoyingly Sergeant Crossarm did this with all of his underlings.

Repeatedly.

"So..." the still-smirking sergeant offered, affixing the older mech with a coy optic. "Still waiting on your new shield?"

"Yes." The medic replied matter-of-factly. As much as it pained Ratchet to be civil toward the person that had effectively ruined his afternoon, he had never been one to mouth off to a superior officer-even one as callow as this. "Though if I might say..." he hesitated as he considered a tactful means of conveying his next statement. "I thought you wanted _me_ to wait out here."

_I'll wait_, Ratchet thought. _I'll wait for fifty breems if I can do it without you._

The younger mech cocked a brow ridge and smirked. "Change of plans."

"Oh?" Ratchet's mood brightened. "I can return to my post, then?"

"You would _actually_ rather continue on with those _dreadful_ reports?" Crossarm demanded, incredulously.

"Well, it is my job."

"Psshaw." The jet scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. "_That_ kind of work can wait."

Ratchet's optics narrowed slightly-the only outward expression of the incensement wrought from Crossarm's comment. Filing reports-though not nearly as crucial or dignifying as patching up wounded soldiers-was still an important component of his job, and he took it just as seriously.

For someone to openly mock his work in his presence was...rude, to say the least, and it took every ounce of will-power that Ratchet possessed to hold his _glossa_, lest he say anything that might come back to bite him in the aft.

Turning his head sharply, the medic sought to mitigate his frustration-and also stifle the conversation-by resuming his earlier search. If there was one thing he learned about Crossarm after five stellar cycles under his command, was that the sergeant was unlikely to follow up on a dialogue if it was blatantly clear the other party wasn't listening.

"You know," Crossarm drawled, and Ratchet cursed a second time.

_Then again, any opportunity to annoy me and he runs with it_.

"You've become the talk of the clinic," Crossarm said and Ratchet could hear the smirk over his shoulder.

When he turned, his suspicions were confirmed.

Sergeant Crossarm beamed like a culturologist that had just unearthed the dirty secrets of some ancient civilization.

Ratchet tried not to rise to the bait. Instead, he merely considered the smaller mech with an inquisitive optic and asked in his most uncaring voice: "Really? How so?"

Feigning shock-which he did too well-Sergeant Crossarm continued to smile. "You haven't heard?" He withdrew a data cylinder from a compartment on his left bracer and tossed it at Ratchet. The seasoned medic caught the article but, considering Crossarm's face, he held it gingerly between his fingers, as one might a live grenade.

"Your new shield is a femme."

"Wha-what!?" Ratchet sputtered, nearly dropping the cylinder.

"Quite the beauty from what I hear too!" Crossarm added with a lascivious smile. And just as suddenly he poorly affected nonchalance. "If you like that sort of thing from a former Decepticon."

For a time the older medic could only stare in disbelief at his C.O., his processors churning as he struggled to process this new information. Reformed Decepticons, though rare, were not unheard of in Iacon, especially after the loss of Nova Cronum. What Ratchet found truly repellant about the whole situation was the thought of actually working with one. Not that he experienced the full-blown, racial hatred as some of his Autobot companions; on the contrary, he just couldn't believe that a Decepticon could learn _anything_ about quality medicine.

Not to mention, he would be depending on a femme to guard his back-which was hard enough to assimilate in and of itself.

On average, most femmes were about half the size of their andric counterparts. In the clinic-and to a lesser degree-socially, this disparity was acceptable. Their smaller frames and dexterous hands made them well-suited for any sort of work requiring tact or fine-scale finesse. Consequentially, some of the best mechanics, medics, and musicians on Cybertron were femmes.

On the battlefield, they simply couldn't compete.

During the Praxian Stalemate, he'd seen a femme scout-the best in her field in terms of skill and sprightliness-crumple like a sheet of aluminum after being hit by a mech that was hardly bigger than himself.

It was all too easy to imagine the same fate befalling his new shield, and the thought made him shudder.

_I can't lose another shield._ He thought heavily, turning his optics back toward the horizon.

A chance look.

Something that looked startlingly like a Decepticon jet was heading their way, low and fast.

"Ah," Crossarm mused, following the direction of Ratchet's stare. "That must be her, now."

Ratchet nodded his head and focused all of his attention on his soon-to-be shield, paying special attention to the manner of her flight.

Millennia ago, his instructor had once remarked: "The handling of one's alt-mode is the handling of one's soul," a quirky and clichéd way of saying that the way one behaved whilst in alt-mode almost assuredly mirrored the manner with which a person would conduct themselves normally.

It was immediately apparent that her flying skills were superior, something that shouldn't have come as a surprise to the medic considering the 'Con's superiority when it came to aerial combat. In fact, Ratchet was convinced that the femme was purposefully going out of her way to make hers a challenging approach, pushing her capabilities as hard and as far as she possibly could.

The medic's expression darkened.

There were only two reasons that he could conceive of for her to behave in such a manner. Either she was incredibly arrogant, and wanted nothing more than to show off her aerial expertise to the ENTIRE city-"pulling a Powerglide," as his friend Jazz would say-or, she was making wise use of her time, honing her skills during an otherwise routine flight.

Should the latter hold true, she would be a fast and aggressive learner, and as such would make a fantastic shield.

However, should the former hold true, he would have address the issue as early as possible.

Skill not tempered by discipline was the quickest way to the scrap yard.

Considering his previous shield, it was a lesson that Ratchet learned just a little bit too late.

_I won't make the same mistake._ Ratchet thought, grimly. _Not with this one._

In the few astroseconds that these thoughts passed through his processor, Ratchet's new shield cleared the modern sector and was now fully within the airspace of historic Iacon. Quelling her earlier acrobatics and flying with a seemingly sudden sense of purpose, the femme adjusted her flaps and gained enough elevation so that she could crest the far wall of the Oratory. Then, in a maneuver that seemed to defy the laws of physics, the femme flared her elevators causing her nose to pitch to an almost vertical position, allowing what was left of her momentum to carry her upward. At the apex of her climb, she began to transform.

Dropping like a steel stone, she landed lightly on her trods in a crouching position; one arm raised and held behind both for balance, and-in Ratchet's optics-added effect.

Not that she really needed it.

Decepticon femmes were always a startling sight, and Ratchet's new shield, even far removed from her past, was no exception.

Her gray, black, and crimson frame was modeled after the standard _nor_-a wide chassis modified slightly to account for her gender, narrow waist, and long delicate legs-as it was the most efficient base for jets and gliders. The armor of her upper torso clearly reflected components from her aerial alt-mode; her shoulders were engine nacelles, her rakish medial plating incorporated everything from slats to pieces of her fuselage, and her femoral plates seemed to be curved stabilizers and spoilers. A set of dark, crescentic wings completed the image, anchored as they were to her cockpit and backstrut.

It was her countenance, however, that truly captured the medic's attention. Her pale, gray face-plate was a tapered triangle, framed as it was by two, vertical audio receptors. A secondary pair of receptors-modified to resemble the curved arm-blades favored by most femmes in combat-sat directly behind her primaries. These created an optical allusion, making her face appear slightly more round than it actually was. Her brow ridges were dark, sleek and stylized, and as they angled down toward her mouth, they merged with her nose-plate in a way that gave her a permanently sly, one might say seductive, expression. The style-lines descending from each optic complemented her appearance, to this end, perfectly.

The femme considered them with intense, electric-blue optics; a bemused smile residing on her lips all the while.

For some illogical reason, Ratchet found himself at a loss for words, and judging from Crossarm's silence, the younger mech was just as overcome, if not more so-he was a notorious debauchee, after all.

Slowly, the femme rose to a standing position.

It was then that Ratchet noticed a large, irregularly shaped scar just above her left aileron, a puncture wound, or so he hypothesized, judging by its size. He found it strange that she had neglected to completely repair the blemish-it had been patched, but nothing else beyond that-especially since doing so would take very little time, perhaps a _groon_ or two, given the skill of the body shop artist.

Ratchet's thoughts were put on hold as his soon-to-be-shield stepped closer and addressed the two of them. "My name is Io," She began inclining her head. "I was told that I would be serving as a shield under Doctor Ratchet." Pausing, she considered them each in turn. "Could either of you direct me to..."

Before Io could finish, and much to Ratchet's chagrin, Crossarm leapt forward and eagerly took her small, clawed hand in his. "So nice to finally meet you, Io." He purred, kissing the back of her hand. "I am Sergeant Crossarm, head of medical operations here at the clinic." Reclaiming his full posture, the blue mech tossed his helm and flashed her with a debonair smile.

Ratchet shook his head, disapprovingly, but did nothing to intervene. He had worked his mouth servos near to useless voicing his 'opinions' to anyone in authority about his sergeant's unprofessional behavior, and they had responded with silence. It was their way of saying 'Transferring him means someone else has to do with him.'

Sighing, he directed his thoughts to study his shield, a defense mechanism against the sudden need to slap the young mech.

Io, on the other hand, was experiencing Crossarm's shameless antics for the first time.

Her reaction...

Needless to say it took both Ratchet and the sergeant by surprise.

"My, my," She cooed in a sultry voice-the tone of which caused Ratchet's jaw to drop, and sent a shiver down Crossarm's back-strut. Reaching upward, she wrapped her claws around the top of the sergeant's medial plate-basically, a portion of his fuselage-and pulled lightly, bringing Crossarm's upper body low enough to be at optic level. With a salacious chuckle, Io caressed Crossarm's face-plate with her claw tips, and then trailing the subtle ridges of his collar-plate, she brought her face enticingly close to his. "Aren't you just the most sleek-plated, jobbernowl I've ever met?"

Ratchet's optics widened, and the heated embarrassment that had occupied his face from the moment she had spoken evaporated.

Only to be replaced by sheer astonishment.

_Did she just say what I think she said?_ He wondered, raising a questioning brow ridge. _No._ He figured finally, destroying that line of reasoning. _She wouldn't possibly risk such a..._

"I would say jejune," She continued pulling the sergeant close enough for their medial plates to touch. "But you seem so much more than that." With a flirtatious chuckle, she reached up with one hand to push lightly on his chest plates, putting a bit of distance between the two of them.

_I can't believe it; she did_. Ratchet allowed, and for the first time in a long time - certainly in any proximity to his sergeant - smirked. _Leave it to a Decepticon to do in one minute what I have been trying to do for years._ He gave an internal, ironic chuckle. _I guess that is what respect and following the chain of command gets you. She'll join the Allspark for this, but, by the look on her face it was worth it._

He waited for Sergeant Crossarm's eventual eruption.

But, to his continued surprise at this interchange, it never came.

One look at the lustful smirk sill residing on the jet's lips told him that his sergeant had not registered the insults at all, instead interpreting them as potential berth-talk.

Shuttering one optic in a teasing wink aimed at Crossarm, she turned her head and focused the full intensity of her stare at Ratchet. The nature of her smirk changed. No longer seductive, it beamed triumph, as if she knew full well that she had just insulted someone so deeply that the offended was completely and utterly unaware of what had just happened.

Unconsciously, forgetting his earlier vow to be more of a disciplinarian when it came to his pupils, Ratchet returned the expression.

She smiled.

"So," she began, addressing Crossarm in a more normal, business-like voice. "Who is this?" she asked, pointing with an open hand at Ratchet.

For several moments, the young sergeant did naught but stare longingly at the femme, her words not registering. He even looked down at her outstretched hand - the same one which had brushed him - as if it held further wonders she would soon disclose. It took several "Ahems" from Io, the first polite and the latter approaching obnoxious before Crossarm finally snapped out his reverie.

And then, seeing he was no longer her focus, responded with a dull, dismissive, "Oh, this is Ratchet."

Io's expression brightened. Brushing past Crossarm as if he were yesterday's news, she moved to stand reverently before the medic. Even at half his height, she still managed to meet his aquamarine stare - after that interchange, he could look at nothing else - and smiled. "Your exploits during the Praxian Stalemate are well known even among Decepticon ranks." Inclining her upper body into a slight bow, she continued. "It's an honor to make your acquaintance, and even more so to serve as your shield."

Ratchet opened his mouth but no sound came out.

The Decepticons _knew_ about him? He was _common_ knowledge? It was flattering, in a way, but the amount of courtesy and respect that she was showing him was very unexpected. Modest at spark, Ratchet forced himself to keep his expression neutral, merely nodding his head in acknowledgement.

At this, the former 'Con cocked her head inquisitively, seemingly intrigued by his silence. _Good counterpoint to Crossarm_, her expression seemed to say.

Behind her, Crossarm quivered with apoplexy. Directing a poisonous glare over her shoulder, he seemed to be saying to the older mech "She's mine; not yours. Back off."

_This is going to be an enjoyable work environment,_ Ratchet thought and sighed inwardly.

Pretending he didn't notice his sergeant's expression, Ratchet focused the entirety of his attention on Io. Maybe he could diffuse the situation by getting them back to accomplishing what he had wanted to be doing in the first place. "Are you ready to work?" he asked her.

_Let's see how adept the Decepticons are with energon sample analysis._

But before the smiling femme could respond, Crossarm blurted out "Don't you think it's a bit late in the day?"

Tossing his helm - Ratchet _hated_ when he did that - he glared haughtily up at the larger mech. "I'm sure she's tired from her glorious flight. Perhaps a morning start would be more appropriate."

Turning his head toward Io, he flashed another debonair smile. "In the meantime, I'd be more than happy to show you to your quarters, my dear." He moved toward her as like a lascivious chaperone.

Ratchet's optics narrowed. Acting like an aft and making himself look foolish was one thing, but, sergeant or no, attempting to dictate his shield's actions was something else entirely. Crossarm had greatly overstepped his bounds.

Opening his mouth in protest, he was surprised _yet again_, as Io giggled pleasantly and sidled up to the blue mech.

"Mmmm, as much as I would love to do that," she purred. "I wouldn't mind familiarizing myself with the clinic before I turn in for the night." Her mask of feminine insinuations back in place, she reached up and ran a clawed finger under his chin. "You don't mind, do you?"

Faceplate flushing furiously, Crossarm only had the mental capacity to numbly shake his head 'no.'

"You're such a sweetspark," She tittered and recalled her claw. "I'll be sure to catch up later."

Walking to stand next to the older medic - sashaying really - she looked at Crossarm longingly.

The sergeant's expression brightened and after a moment he composed himself, assuming once again the mantle of 'one tasty piece of energon'. "I'll leave you to your work then, my dear," he said cockily, knowingly. Finally, after yet another debonair bow and several more steamy looks, which Io seemed to reciprocate, Crossarm started for the edge of the platform. Running the last few mechanometers, he leaped into the air fluidly, arms held out to the side for maximum effect. At the apex of his leap, he transformed into his alt-mode, a garishly modified jet, and gunned his engines, disappearing quickly into the rapidly approaching twilight.

It was the most embellished exit Ratchet had ever seen next to Powerglide, and he could _only_ speculate at the reason.

As if in answer to his sarcastic thoughts, Io, standing next to him, interjected "I _hate_ him," when it was clear that their C.O. could not have heard. Granted she did say it loud enough that anyone on the platform could have heard, but they were alone.

Looking down at her, she seemed to alternate between a glower and a face that said "I took care of that." In fact, she was even making a rude gesture into the air at his receding contrail.

Ratchet sighed. While he wholeheartedly supported her annoyance - he would have probably chosen outright hostility had he been in Io's place - he needed to nip this in the aft. He had learned over the years that even among the Autobots were those you found it very hard to work with - in his case, Warpath and his "bazinga" being chief among them - but the only way order could be maintained, and what truly made them different from the Decepticons, was for them to control their emotions and work within the system. Which was why he had spent years talking about Crossarm's behavior with his superiors, rather than just pounding him flat as someone like Megatron would have done.

If Io was going to be his shield, she was going to have to learn this.

She would have _a lot_ of things like this to learn if she didn't want to end up like his last one...

"Insulting your commanding officer-however covertly done-is not the way to make an impression on your first day," he said gruffly, to banish those thoughts.

Stepping backward as if slapped, she looked up at the medic.

"But he's a piston rod!" She replied angrily.

"While that may be true," Ratchet growled, "He is still your C.O. and you are to respect him as such."

"But even you agreed with me," she retorted, fixing the medic with pinched optics. "I saw it written plain as day on your faceplate."

He recoiled, but he had to acknowledge that she was right. He had allowed himself to take cruel pleasure at his sergeant's verbal obliteration. And he had to acknowledge that he would have to work even harder at being emotionless around his sergeant in the future lest he let his true feelings slip.

_You don't reward a behavior you don't want to reinforce_, he thought, as much for himself as a reminder to what he needed to make clear to his shield.

"It was a mistake," he admitted. "One that I will not make again. And neither will you." Bending slightly at the waist, the medic flared his shoulder caps-something that would make him appear larger, and more intimidating-and leveled his face to within inches of hers; his voice, when he finally spoke, was cold and mechanical. "_Are we clear on this?_"

Aside from a slight narrowing of her optics, Io seemed unimpressed. Decepticons had little regard for authority, and could talk slag about their C.O.s at the slightest provocation.

And to the seasoned medic, the look on her face seemed to suggest that her 'Con roots still made this behavior all too easy for her.

He would have to be shrewd and severe in his dealings with her if he really wanted to change her behavior for the better.

_And, also, for her continued well-being_. He thought.

"I'll bear that in mind, Doctor." She replied, coldly.

"See that you do." Ratchet answered, regaining his full posture.

"So, what's first on the docket?" Io said without missing a beat. Her expression declared "Fine, I'll be orderly, professional, and formal, even if it kills you if _that's_ the way you want it."

Ratchet started to sigh again, but stopped himself. _We'll play it your way, Io. And I swear by the Allspark that I will not be so easily broken._

"Reports," he said with a smile. "Lots and lots of reports."


	5. Chapter 5: Confrontation

"Dude, Ratchet," Miko interrupted. "Why were you so mean to her? I mean..." Lowering her head, she paused, her hands gesticulating lamely as she considered her next statement. "You had the 'hots' for her, right?"

Ratchet considered her unique choice of words with a raised brow ridge. He understood the human word "hot"-their base was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, after all, where daytime temperatures frequented the century mark-but in all the decades that they had been on earth, he had never heard the word used in this manner. "I don't follow," he replied, leaning forward so that he could look at the small human more closely.

"You were diggin' on her," Miko translated.

"Um..."

"Kiffin' her style?"

Ratchet's brows drew down even more in confusion.

Noting his continued lack of comprehension, Miko threw up her hands and let out an exasperated sigh. "Bulkhead. Help me out, here."

The ex-Wrecker turned his head and considered the older mech with a smirk. "You liked her actuators."

"Oh..." The medic blinked rapidly in startlement, and sat back on his crate. "Oh!" He repeated. For a moment he was stunned, but whether from Miko's audacity, Bulkhead's attempt at tact, or some long buried memory of his first encounter with Io, he eventually couldn't help but smile.

"Why didn't you just say so in the first place?" he wanted to add with a chuckle, but he stopped himself at the last second. Since the nuances of human gender relations were incredibly bizarre, he couldn't gauge Miko's response. For all he knew, she might find the statement condescending or, perhaps, indecent.

Racking his processor, the best response the medic could contrive was: "I guess I would be lying if I said that I wasn't mildly _intrigued_ by her." He paused and when Miko smiled, he added, "At first." Rubbing the back of his neck, as he often did when put on the spot, nervous, or embarrassed about something, he studied Miko's expression to see if this answer was acceptable...without giving her more conversation fodder.

She just continued to regard him with a knowing smile. So too did Bulkhead, Arcee, Bumblebee, Jack, _and_ Rafael. It was the look on Arcee's face, that, "We know, we know," which did it though.

His expression darkening as she grinned, Ratchet focused his optics on Miko. "Whatever feelings I might have had for Io were _irrelevant_." He spoke with a note of irritation. "The only thing that truly concerned me was _discipline_." He expected the youth to nod, but she didn't seem overly convinced.

Unsurprising.

And as he considered her, he realized she had effectively derailed his story _again_.

Regretting his involvement in this "game", he thought of how to put the narrative back 'on track,' as the humans would say.

But where to restart?

They needed to know the reasons behind the way he had treated Io. Otherwise, as Miko had suggested, the story would just make him seem like an aft.

Should he start with his time as a shield? With his field-mentor Relay?

No. They didn't need to know the _whole_ story, even if Relay's onerous teaching methods helped to shape him into the medic that he was today.

With Io's predecessor, Gamma?

At this, an image popped into his head, and his optics dimmed slightly, regretfully. He tried to suppress it, but as it was the most logical place to began, he was unable.

Shoulders slumping, he looked back at his listeners with a grimace. "Discipline," he repeated, softly, sadly. "Having a strong sense of discipline is absolutely essential should one wish to make anything of themselves."

Miko opened her mouth as if to say "why," but Ratchet cut her off with a raised hand and a series of expletive "Tut"s. "Discipline, constancy of purpose, is the motivation that allows a person to hone and focus their skills. Without focus, without _purpose_, all you have are notions and theories, but no desire to wield them."

His optics lowered. "Furthermore, self-destructive emotions-independent of skill-can, likewise, lead a person to ruin. I learned this the hard way with Io's predecessor, Gamma." he continued to grimace, fighting down an annoyingly familiar stab of self-loathing. "On the battlefield...when his unfiltered arrogance-bolstered, in part, by my lackadaisical teaching methods-proved to be his undoing."

"Really?" Raf said immediately as he finished. "You? Lackadaisical?" Face kind and gentle, the small youth seemed to exude empathy as he could see the old medic's pain.

His expression softening, Ratchet tilted his head and directed his troubled gaze at the ceiling, unwilling, for the moment, to look at anyone, Cybertronian or human.

"There was a time," The medic began after several silent seconds of contemplation. "When all I wanted was to be the best mentor that I could be." Lowering his head, he considered them all deeply. "I wanted my shields to perform admirably, but I couldn't see myself spurring them, driving them in their work as mercilessly as I was driven when I was a shield."

He could see the youths nodding; he had heard the same sentiments echoed by parents on the television news programs. Not that he watched them; he hadn't the time, nor the desire to do so. Unfortunately for him, the children spent SO much time watching TV that he picked up a lot-sometimes way more than he wanted-through osmosis.

If only he could move his work station...

Sighing, he averted his optics, once again. "But, what I failed to realize was that Gamma didn't need a friend, he needed an instructor; someone that would put him through his paces, curb his arrogance with harsh words and demerits, _beat_ the chain of command into him, if necessary.

"But I didn't do any of that." His voice had grown soft, distant. "And Gamma paid the ultimate price for my poor judgment."

At this pronouncement, Ratchet crossed his arms loosely and leaned forward, his stark-white bracers resting lightly against his femoral plates. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. "When I first met Io, I could sense the same arrogance, the same need to make something of herself, to prove her abilities to the world." His optics fluttered open; his gaze was unfocused. "Independent of any petty feelings of attraction, I just couldn't bear to see the same thing happen to her. I couldn't lose her the way that I lost Gamma."

"So, you were harsh with her." Rafael surmised.

Ratchet nodded. "Needlessly so."

"Did it work?" Miko wondered, curiously, wrapping her narrow arms around her shins.

"At first, yes." He agreed."She did exactly as I expected. Desperate to convince me that her skills had merit, she pushed herself near to exhaustion: taking on extra work, staying after hours, anything that could potentially raise her standing in my optics." Suddenly, his expression darkened. "I assumed, perhaps arrogantly so, that she would react to my teaching methods the same way that I reacted to my instructor's: that she would quietly accept the abuse, strive to do the best she could, and continue diligently with her work knowing full-well that she would walk away a better medic as a result." He shook his head. "Yet another, grievous, miscalculation on my behalf."

"What do you mean?" Jack wondered, speaking up for the first time in a while.

Ratchet considered the lanky teen with pinched optics. "I ended up pushing her too hard, never taking into consideration her history as a 'Con." He paused, briefly, before continuing. "I was so committed to her success and well-being that I completely overlooked the obvious.

"And nearly cost Io her life in the process."

* * *

It was late in the day at the Iacon clinic.

For anyone else, such an observation may have held some sort of merit.

For Io, however, time no longer held any meaning.

Despondent, dejected, the former Decepticon glowered at her charge-the "renowned" Doctor Ratchet-from her sitting position atop a large, padded berth that had been built into the far wall of the laboratory.

The old medic was peering intently through the eyepiece of a specialized polarizing microscope, clearly lost in thought. Every once and a while, he would look up-optics distant yet thoughtful-mutter something to himself, punch an observation or two into the computer, then, still muttering, turn his attention back to the scope for additional study.

She might have found his mannerisms quaint, perhaps even cute, had she not wanted to rip his voice box out for all of the hell he had put her through these past few _orns_.

She had literally run herself ragged trying to impress him. Yet, despite her best efforts, the medic found fault with everything, be it her welding skills-which were considered exemplary by her colleagues at the Academy-her bedside mannerisms-something that, admittedly, could use a bit of work-or her overall work ethic-which was fairly decent, all things considering.

And, damnably, the harder she tried, the harsher his criticisms were.

There was simply no pleasing him.

The femme suppressed a sigh. She was not looking for praise. Effectiveness and efficiency were all components of her job; praise for inherency would only inflate her pride and thus make her less efficient in the long run. What she did want, however, was just a smidgeon of respect on his behalf. Not necessarily respect for her skills, as she wasn't nearly as experienced in the field as he was, but respect for her as an individual.

"Io?" The sound of Ratchet's voice snapped her away from her thoughts like an energon whip. Normally, the good doctor only saw fit to refer to her by such menial identifiers as "hey," "you," "femme," or others. Actually being addressed by her name was a welcome improvement. Looking up, a curious glimmer glinting in her optics, she replied. "Yes, doctor?"

"Get me the handheld SLS," he said. He did not look up from his work, just merely waved his arm absently toward a cluttered shelf at the far end of the lab.

Io's face lit up. This was the first time Ratchet had actually asked for her assistance.

Without hesitation she bounded across the room and with the utmost care, retrieved the item from the shelf.

It was a momentous moment.

Made even more so by the good doctor's next words.

Just as she was about to turn around, just as she was about ready to take her place as his trusted assistant, he added: "Take care not to drop it."

"Gahhhh!" she shrieked in a voice befitting Starscream and her optics narrowed to micron slits.

It was a simple, backhanded, belittling comment, normally of no consequence, but _infinite_ considering it had followed _orns_ of the same. It proved Ratchet had absolutely no confidence in her abilities, whatsoever.

A surge of anger filled her spark at the indecency and unfairness of it all, and her claws clenched tightly around the SLS. "That does it," she growled throwing the object across the room where it shattered spectacularly against the wall.

At the sound, Ratchet's head snapped up from the scope, turning sharply. His optics narrowed in anger to mimic hers. "I needed that!" He yelled with a note of desperation. Bounding up from his workstation to chastise her, the medic turned only to find himself plate to plate with his shield.

"What is your malfunction?" they said in unison, Ratchet gesturing toward the remains of the SLS while Io stood, claws on her hip-plates, blue optics attempting to bore holes in him.

A pause.

Considering he had the higher ground both in stature and expertise, Ratchet jumped into the verbal gap, finger wagging at her faceplate. "That was a valuable piece of equipment."

"Oops," Io replied, her voice dripping sarcasm. "My _ineptitude_ must have gotten the better of me." At this, she took an elaborate bow of debasement.

Ratchet blinked rapidly as his processors attempted to comprehend her actions. Over the past few _orns_ he had gotten used to her mannerisms, but utter disregard for his authority wasn't at all what he was expecting. "What are you..."

The thought half formed, Io interrupted him.

"You have got to be one of the _biggest_ slag-mungers I've ever met!"

Ratchet blinked again. The level of anger in her voice caught him completely unprepared. Not to mention the back-log in his processors as he wondered just how _he_ could be worse than all the Decepticons she had had the displeasure of serving with.

"What is your deal, exactly?" She demanded.

Another blink as he took an involuntary step backwards, retreating as best as he was able to from her ire.

_How could such a small creature be suddenly so intimidating?_ Ratchet thought to himself, even as she pressed forward.

"You gripe and complain about every, single, thing that I do or have done since I was assigned to you." She jabbed at his chest plate with her index claw to emphasize the point.

The medic raised his hands protect himself.

It didn't matter. Her talons were quick as lighting, avoiding his grasp.

"'Hey, you. Be careful not to weld Powerglide's faceplate to his wings,'" she mocked with a jab.

"Save your files. Be sure to save your files. I don't know if you remembered to save your files." Three jabs.

Ratchet's regress eventually found him leaning back over his workstation.

"'Don't drop it.'" Jab.

Each jab was a burning sword through his spark chamber.

"It's like you're some sort of insecure control freak with impossible expectations."

The older medic's mouth opened but no sound came out.

"'Deal with this mountain of reports, puny one, while I stand back and munch on energon goodies!'"

At this, Ratchet's brow plates drew down and his voice became a deep, angry, trembling well. Assailing him for his attitude was one thing, but he did _not _sit around munching on energon goodies. "Is it wrong for me to have high expectations of my students?"

Io withdrew her claw. "No, it's not." She admitted, after a moment, her expression softening. "In fact, I chose you because I heard rumors that you were a hard aft."

Ratchet smirked. "And, have I disappointed you in that regard?" He let it deepen as he saw her annoyance at the question.

Io pursed her lips. "You're missing the point."

"If you willingly signed up with me, you have no right to complain about my teaching methods." The medic replied dismissively.

A bark of laughter slipped past her lips. "Funny you should prattle on about this whole 'student/teacher' thing, when I haven't learned anything from you since I arrived here." She paused, and placed her claw to her lips in mock thought. "Well, that's not true, I have learned how to be completely heartless toward my subordinates, plunging any desire they might have to improve into the depths of a frozen energon sea."

"That's not..." Ratchet interjected in protest.

"Dark and destitute it lies there, a source of scorn and contempt for those that scurry about the sunlight surface of the world."

"Now wait just a minute. I-"

"Oh, yes; that's right! How could I be so forgetful?" She mused, cutting him off; the expression on her face jubilant, as if she had made some astounding new discovery, or was on such a roll she felt pausing might dampen the point she was attempting to make. "I've also learned how to fake ignorance in light of my own personality flaws."

"And saying..." Rearing to her full height, she flattened her chest plates as if half-transforming. Putting one arm-blaster on her hip she waggled a finger at him as if a teacher to an unruly student, or one old medic to one younger Decepticon jet. "'Don't drop that' like I'm an untrained sparkling isn't condescension?"

Ratchet opened his mouth to reply, to continue arguing with her, but for the fifth time in so many minutes, he could find no words. Failing that, he gave her and the entire situation a dismissive wave of his hand and turned away. "I don't have time for this."

"Oh, of course," Io followed, smirking deviously. "I'll have to add allodoxaphobia to the list, as well."

Stopping dead in his tracks, the older medic clenched his hands. Spinning faster than she would have believed, he bent at the waist so he could stare directly into her optics, face to face, his brow ridges drawn down in unconcealed anger. It was a look that said she had gone too far.

Through gritted dental plates, Ratchet could only growl: "Look, you couldn't possibly understand..."

Io smirked. This was the challenge she had been waiting for.

Pushing her face closer to his, she narrowed her optics to slits. "Well, if you would just get off your damn pedestal and explain it to me." she replied with a hiss.

"I..." Ratchet started.

And just then the wall monitor, not two mechanometers to the right of their battle of wills, lit up with the smug face of that damnable Sergeant Crossarm. Unexpectedly seeing both of them close enough to be in the same frame of Ratchet's view screen, his faceplate immediately registered annoyance and jealousy.

"I hope I am not _interrupting_ anything," he said.

Snapping to attention Ratchet made sure to lightly shove Io's shoulder, setting a bit of distance between the two of them with a flick of his wrist. Stumbling somewhat ungracefully as she regained her footing, the Io glared angrily up at her charge, dagger-like claws flexing as if she were seriously toying around with the idea of using them.

"Not at all," the old medic said with a face devoid of emotion. Well, emotionless except for the left brow ridge that twitched in anger at Crossarm's insinuating sneer.

"One couldn't help but wonder." He growled shaking his head. "I've been trying to contact you for some time now."

Ratchet's optics widened before darting toward the communications panell. Sure enough a blinking blue light, one that only activated in the event of missed message, flashed merrily.

Shaking his head, the medic cursed under his breath. "What's the urgency?" He asked.

"Medics are needed in the field at Gorn Station. Meet in The Bay for briefing and deployment."

Looking from one 'Bot to the other-an angry glower followed by a steamy grin-and seeing they both recognized the gravity of the situation, Sergeant Crossarm signed off.

"Scrap." Ratchet swore. Moving quickly, the medic stooped and grabbed a small, red-and-white medical kit from beneath his console; a meager set of equipment, to be sure, but of vital importance. "With me," he ordered and, without looking to see if she complied, started for the hallway. Just as the door opened for him, however, the medic paused, and turned his head so that he could glare at his shield through narrowed optics. "Don't think this is over."

"Oh, I agree," She concurred gruffly, crossing her arms and fixing the large mech with a stare.

Ratchet considered her response grimly, and turned his head. He hated seeing her pretty countenance furrowed, so, in anger. But was this whole thing really his fault? She _did _need to learn discipline-her 'handling' of Crossarm attested to that-but perhaps he had been too harsh on her these past few _orns_.

Sighing, internally, the medic shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now was not the time to reevaluate his teaching methods. With the war machine apparently back in full swing, his primary focus should only be his job, his duty. Everything else, emotions and regrets included, were of secondary importance.

Ratchet started down the hall at a brisk pace; he could feel Io following along at his heels. Around him, labs and workrooms disgorged concerned field-medics and shields.

Too many medics and shields.

Ratchet's spark sunk.

If so many medical personnel were needed, the battle couldn't have gone well for their side.

Moving as quickly as he could manage, as if his sheer speed could save the sparks undoubtedly being extinguished, Ratchet pressed on toward the main hall, a large corridor that formed the heart of the Iacon clinic.

The clinic's layout was dendritic, smaller hallways replete with dozens of labs and berth-rooms branching off in different directions from an expansive, primary corridor. The main entrance, also known as the "common" door was situated at the northernmost end of that corridor. This along with the first half-dozen or so tributary halls served the general population of Iacon. The rest of the facility had been built as an addition to the original clinic after the start of the war, more than doubling the capacity of the once tiny structure. It was here, in the southern quadrant, where most of the soldiers were cataloged and treated according to the severity of their injuries.

The primary corridor was brisk with activity as more and more field medics and surgeons flooded in from surrounding hallways.

Turning sharply, Ratchet plunged headlong into the throng of 'bots and followed the tide southward toward 'The Bay,' the term lovingly applied to the remote southern end of the facility, the distribution center that housed the clinic's three ground bridges.

"Must be one pit of a battle, if they need this many of us," Io remarked, echoing Ratchet's earlier thoughts.

"Hrmpf," Ratchet responded, as if her words needed not be spoken. Holding up his medical kit to avoid a passing nurse, a glider with downswept wings-one of the few flighted 'bots other than Crossarm and Io in the entire facility-he glanced at her over his shoulder. "Best make sure we're prepared."

Knowing his neurotic penchant for having _everything_ organized, Io surmised that the medic had everything he needed in that one little box, whether it be for a line break or a severed limb. As such, his remark couldn't have been meant to include himself.

Yet _another _backhanded comment.

"I'll show him," Io said under her breath.

Stretching her arms straight ahead as she walked so as not to impede traffic, but to make sure she was in the medic's peripheral vision, she exhibited both top-mounted, 42-REM blasters. Despite them being standard, on-board weaponry, she had always liked their simple elegance.

Of course, it was the other equipment she knew he would scrutinize.

Retracting her hands, she proffered two, severe-looking hex-cannons. Installed when she was 'promoted' to the Fourth Tactical Bombing Unit, the Decepticons had favored these above other accoutrement for the surprise punch they offered when transitioning from air to ground assaults. In top-working order, they held few battle scars, and she could feel Ratchet noting this with a surprised and relieved expression.

She had been good at what she did and it showed.

A quick return to normal and out came her right-hand welder, similar the one Ratchet had stowed in his right bracer. A necessary tool for the medical profession, hers had seen just as much action as a weapon as it had a restorative implement. A flick set it alight and she checked the stream to ensure its proper function.

Once sure that everything was in working order, she put it away and flexed her claws. Looking up at the medic she was surprised to see him watching her, not out of the corner of his optic as she knew he would be, but directly and intently, his forward motion all but arrested and his regard for those that may be getting in his way all but gone.

Something that ended very quickly once the medic realized she watching.

Hardening his features, Ratchet made a strange rumbling sound with his voice-box and forced his optics to reconsider the hallway.

Io followed suit, her thoughts spinning. Had that just been a 'less-than-academic' look? She found the notion hard to believe and dismissed it with a shake of her head.

If he truly found her attractive, why the pit was he tormenting her so?

The bay doors loomed ahead, massive doors of reinforced _e_'_tcharian_ alloy. The sight of them interrupted her thoughts. Despite being intricately decorated with flowing, Golden Age script and carved relief sculptures of famous medics, the doors also served to protect the rest of the clinic-and by extension, historic Iacon-from annihilation should the ground bridge portals be compromised. Their sheer bulk also provided their first line of defense against any ambitious, payload bearing 'Cons, should they somehow bypass the shields on the other side of the vortex.

Ratchet, having spent a considerable amount of time in and around the bay, passed through the doors without so much as a second glance.

Io, on the other hand, hungrily devoured every detail. As a former Decepticon, she couldn't squash her inherent curiosity that this was one of the main travel lines of the Autobots, one of dozens of fortifications that Megatron had spent many a life and hour trying to locate. It was also the first time that she had been permitted to venture this far away from the lab as a medic's assistant.

In either capacity, her optics were straining to make up for lost time.

And, as if this visual feast was insufficient, once in the bay, itself, Io's optics opened even wider. First, the room was a lot smaller than she had imagined. In fact, she would've been surprised if it measured any more than four or five toranometers wide by the same distance deep. The vaulted roof was, at its highest point, about one toranometer, plenty of enough clearance for mechs even as tall as Ratchet.

Secondly, the tiny enclosure was dominated on its far wall by three, elaborately constructed ground bridges. True, the tunnels added additional depth to the room, making it appear larger than it actually was, but she was shocked to her core by how closely spaced they were.

As the two of them sidled up to the rest of the crowd that had gathered in anticipation of Crossarm's briefing, Io couldn't help but look up at Ratchet and ask: "I may be no quantum theoretician, but how is it that they can have three ground bridges in such close proximity?"

Ratchet smirked without looking down at her. "I suppose you're referring to the concept of vortex feedback." He replied haughtily.

"Of course." She replied with an unconscious grimace.

The question should not have been untoward as it _certainly_ was not juvenile-even the Decepticons had never achieved this with their own groundbridges-but the medic shook his head as if as if annoyed at having to explain a concept so childishly simple. Not rising to the bait, Io simply clenched her claws at his tone and forced herself to listen.

"Normally, bridges, when operated in such close proximity, will experience vortex feedback, whereby the energon stream from one vortex will harmonize with and reinforce the stream from a second, with catastrophic consequences." Raising his free hand he pointed at the right-most bridge. "It's hard to see from this angle, but if you up-calibrate your optics just a bit, you will notice that each bridge is surrounded by a constrained magnetic field, held in place by specialized force-fields." He looked down at her. "We can pass through the fields just fine, but the vortex energy cannot."

"So the vortex energy is contained by the magnetic field, and we are protected from that magnetic field by a force-field of opposite polarity?"

He looked at her with a raised brow-ridge, but she couldn't tell if it was surprise or further disdain. In any case, sensing a question that involved his technical expertise he responded with minor enthusiasm, excitement that, had they not been ready to bridge into a warzone, would no doubt have approached effervescence. "No, no, no. Not opposite polarity as we would still be affected by that magnetic field. We use the force-fields to act like a typical ferromagnetic solid shield. The force field is attracted to the magnetic field but nothing outside feels the effects."

"Interesting..." Io mused, thoughtfully, excited to see her superior animated and feeling slightly calmer than she had just moments before. Imagine: a whole sentence without an invective. It was a novel idea, but she was hard-pressed to believe in instantaneous changes of spark. _I think we would actually get along if he wasn't so, damn, difficult to work with_, she thought to herself. _Maybe some positive reinforcement for 'good behavior?'_

"So how do you prevent the force-shield, if you will, from collapsing inward as it isn't solid-" her attempts were cut short as the holographic projector in the center of the room suddenly whirred to life.

Crossarm, his expression noticeably somber-Io wouldn't be surprised if it were forced-looked out at all of them, and began his briefing.

"According to the data I've been provided, Decepticon ground troops began their assault on Gorn Station, one of Uraya's power relay stations, less than a _groon_ ago." His face disappeared and was replaced by a map of the station. "We'll be sending in three different deployments here," A marker appeared on the map near the southeastern quadrant of the station, "Here," another at the far western quadrant, and "here," a central location between the two first deployment sites. Crossarm's face appeared once again, and he considered them all with his intense, aquamarine optics. "It's going to be hell out there," he said flatly. "Do what you can, save who you can, request bridges as needed; there will be personnel on hand here in the bay to receive your patients. Crossarm out."

The image faded abruptly and silently and just as soundlessly, masked as they were by the force-fields, all three ground bridges sprang to life. In a myriad of coruscating colors created as energon within the vortex was compressed, heated, and converted to an ionized gas, the matter-of-fact operations of battlefield medicine began.

It was, to put it mildly, an efficient operation. No wasted words-although Io surmised that Crossarm's brevity was simply because he wanted to get back to wenching as quickly as possible-no bickering, no jockeying for position or vying for power as the Decepticons would have done. No threats of disintegrations required. Everyone moved into position with intent and purpose.

Ratchet instinctively headed for the right-most bridge-Io had never seen any specific deployment instructions-where two, unfamiliar field-medics waited there with their shields, optics watching the older mech as he made his way forward.

The first medic was tall...very, very tall. Despite being a full mechanometer taller than Ratchet, the difference in mass couldn't have been at all significant, considering his slighter frame. In fact, if Io didn't know any better, she could easily believe that he was flight capable. _Perhaps not fast, powered flight_... She mused, considering the large, red and white turbines that comprised the bulk of each shoulder joint. _But definitely a flyer of sorts._

The large mech frowned down at her from behind two, penetrating blue optics, but he remained silent and stoic.

In fact, if he didn't blink from time to time, she would have mistaken him for a statue.

"Hey! 'That your new shield, boss-bot? Crossarm must've been furious that she was assigned to you and not to him."

Io immediately turned her optics toward the source of the outburst, the second of the two medics, and cocked a questioning brow-ridge. The blue-and-white mech was, quite possibly, the smallest 'bot that she had ever seen, and if not for his large back-plate, he would have only come up to her waist. His small, stocky stature didn't seem to affect his self-esteem in the slightest, and he eagerly rushed up to her and shook her hand. "Hey, nice to meet'cha. I'm Interlink." His rounded face-plate all but split in two as he smiled up at her. Then, lowering his voice and casting about as if he feared that someone would overhear, he whispered. "Crossarm's a jerk. So if he tries anything, let me know. I've got the code to his private quarters, and I could very easily sneak in there and glue him to his berth or something."

Io goggled down at him for a moment. Then, after a few quick blinks to make sure she wasn't imagining the whole scenario, she giggled. "Thanks, I'll do that."

"Ahem..."

Io and Interlink both looked up at Ratchet, who-as luck would have it-was glaring down at the two of them, brow-ridges narrowed dangerously. "If you don't mind?" He said sternly.

"Sorry, boss-bot." Interlink replied with another audio-receptor splitting grin. "Just trying to be friendly." He looked at Io one last time, smiled, and quickly rejoined his field team.

But not before flashing the tall mech with a strangely intimate smile.

Io's brow-ridge resumed its cocked position. _Interesting..._ she mused, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Ratchet's voice.

"All of you know the drill," he began in a voice that was decidedly strict. And yet, as he handed out his orders, Io couldn't help but note an underlying note of compassion. "Once in the field, fan out. Triage," He pointed at the tall mech. "You and your shield focus your efforts on the left flank. Interlink, you and your team take the middle. Io and I," He considered his shield with a stern optic. "Will take the right flank."

Everyone nodded their understanding.

Last minute gear checks ensued against the backdrop of the scintillating portal. Io followed suit, transforming her bracers several times just to make sure the transformation between hand and cannon was as loose as possible. Once certain that everything was in order, she considered Ratchet.

"Are you ready, Io?" he asked, turning to face the ground bridge.

"Yes, sir," She replied sternly, determination burning brightly behind her optics.

With a curt nod, the medic started through the bridge, disappearing in a flash with Io on his heels.


	6. Chapter 6 Part 1: Trust

Even though most of these chapters are already written, I'm editing them...yet again...for any inconsistencies, grammar errors, etc... that I missed when I first posted them on DA.

I'm absolutely floored that this story has been viewed so many times in just a few days. Thank you so much, everyone. :D

* * *

For Io, following Ratchet into the modified ground bridge was an interesting experience, to say the least. In order to reach the vortex they had to first traverse the curious shielding that kept the vortex energy from reacting explosively with those of the other two streams.

Ahead of her, Ratchet's forward motion abruptly slowed, so much so that he appeared, at least for one fleeting moment, to have frozen in mid-stride. Then, with a heavy, yet determined, shrug of his shoulder caps, the medic leaned forward and continued walking, his left trod dropping so slowly as to be surreal, the plasma of the vortex distorting noticeably as the barrier yielded to his large frame. The other leg followed suit as lingeringly as its twin; his arms behaved in a similar manner, swinging unhurriedly as he strode forward.

Io's optics pinpointed the barrier ahead of her, specifically a series of small ripples that had remained in wake of Ratchet's passing. Not wanting to appear weak or cowardly to her charge Io smoothed her features of emotion and walked forward without hesitation.

At first, it was as if she had walked into an invisible wall, all of her forward momentum ceasing on the spot. It shouldn't have come as a shock to her, considering she had just observed the same happenings with Ratchet, but it was just so odd to feel the entirety of her body, wings and all, restrained by something that was, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

And, because she had spent the last few _vorns_ of her existence using Decepticon ground bridges which acted and felt nothing like this.

Leaning forward as Ratchet had done, she felt herself moving again, almost a sensation of being drawn forward, the barrier pressing in on her from all sides.

Within moments, and with an ungraceful stumble as she transitioned back to the "lower density" environment of the vortex, she was through and looking up at a pleasantly smirking Ratchet.

Behind her, Io could hear the others emerging, metal feet echoing dully in the muffled energy well. It was a muted observation as her attention was focused forward, on her charge, and on the shifting, twisting body of the bridge ahead.

Ratchet, seeing that his shield had transitioned without incident-and still smirking for reasons that Io couldn't fathom-turned and started down the vortex at a brisk clip.

Rolling her optics, Io followed along, adjusting her speed so as to keep pace.

It was then, as the two of them pressed onward, that she noticed something else.

Decepticon ground bridges involved short translocations. That was not to suggest a limited range as they could connect any two points on the planet, but that the energy well only 'existed' for what seemed to be a short ground distance. The 'two steps and you're through' was replaced by 'wow; this is the strangest tunnel I've ever traversed.'

The femme actually had enough time to reach a full-out sprint by the time they emerged at their destination.

It was a strange feeling, one that she would have spent more time digesting had they not transitioned into a scene straight out of a nightmare.

Acrid smoke, illuminated from below by dozens of raging fires hung heavily in the air, masking the size and shape of any object beyond a few mechanometers. Periodically, the gray glow was accented by dull flashes of light, but whether from proximal beam-weapon fire or distant explosions, neither Io nor Ratchet could tell, muffled as they were visually and sonically.

"So where's our first patient?" Io asked, her voice all business. As she spoke, she aimed the barrels of her hex-cannons here and there, optics straining against the haze as she searched for anything that could pose a threat to her or her charge.

"About half a klik south of our current position," the medic replied checking the display on his right bracer. "His vitals are dropping. We need to move."

Io nodded, turned so that she was facing south, and started off at a brisk run, her optics and cannons still searching the gloom for would-be danger.

Around her, chewed metal and chunks of burning machinery poked out at odd angles, appearing suddenly out of the haze. Not wanting to slow, her forward progression was reduced to an odd pell-mell sprint, dodging this way and that, rolling around any obstacle too big to jump over and heaving aside the odd piece of flotsam too small to be a significant impediment. It also heightened her senses, these sudden, required responses.

Part of her wished that she could fly rather than run; even with the thick haze, she would still make better progress. However, she knew full-well that Ratchet was a "grounder," and flying over this war-torn muddle would have been self-defeating in light of his limitations.

_Speaking of which..._Io rotated her large audio receptors a few degrees so that she could listen in on her charge, specifically the familiar, and also unique, sound proffered by his trods as he loped effortlessly along in her wake.

_Surprising_, she thought, leaping over a particularly sizable obstacle: a discarded energon sled.

Clearing it, in short order she heard Ratchet thud to the ground behind her, his longer legs easily overcoming the obstruction. The gap between them had never stretched beyond one or two mechanometers.

Not that she had chosen a difficult path on purpose, as the terrain had been set as an artifact of war, but his agility seemed incongruous with his age.

As she considered this, all the accounts she had heard about him flooded back into her processors.

Lore among the Decepticons held that while Ratchet had already been an "older" 'Bot during the Praxian Stalemate, he had still managed to hold his own in close combat. Some reports had him blowing up a groundbridge as he was beset by enemy drones. Still others claimed that he had single-handedly dispatched an entire platoon of Decepticons with his bladed weapons, all the while carrying wounded soldiers from the battlefield.

Both of which seemed needlessly far-fetched, given what she had experienced with him these past few _orns._

And yet...many rumors had their origins in truth.

As much as she might have despised her mentor's personality, even she had to admit that if the rumors were partially accurate, Ratchet must be a decent warrior.

The femme smirked, even as she dodged another burning obstacle. As a warrior, herself, the thought of seeing him in action was almost too good to pass up, even if the desire was wrought from curiosity more than it was respect.

At the limits of her hearing, a unique whistling sound effectively decapitated her thoughts.

"Ratchet, get down. NOW!" She screamed, turning her cannons skyward.

The medic complied without question or hesitation-something that she might have found suitably ironic given the events of the day.

But not now.

Io fired both cannons.

The explosion that illuminated the night was frightfully close; too close. Knocked nearly into Ratchet by the force of the compressional wave and pelted by variously sized chunks of shrapnel, Io raised her arms defensively. The terrific velocity of the fragments coupled with their proximity to the explosion saw dozens of the shards lodge painfully into the thick, metal alloy of her bracers and legs.

Stumbling back, she felt Ratchet's hand on her shoulder. "Are you ok?" He asked, a note of concern embedded in the tone of his voice.

"I'm fine," She huffed through gritted dental plates. "Don't worry about me."

Ratchet's brow-ridges narrowed. If he had a _nar_ of energon for every time he had heard that exact phrase uttered by a wounded soldier, the war would be over and the Autobots would be well on their way to a second Golden Age.

Frowning, still holding tight to her shoulder, the old medic considered her wounds. It was quickly apparent that most of them were superficial. Those that were not leaked only a paltry amount of fresh energon. These wounds would heal themselves in short order, and as such welding them would have been a waste of energon and time.

His expression still dour, he had to admit that she was, as she had said, "fine."

It didn't mean that he appreciated her attitude, however.

Withdrawing his hand, he managed a dismissive "Fine" Before putting the matter out of his processor. "What was that just now?" Ratchet asked.

"Debilitator," Io replied, considering the horizon with thoughtful optics. "Basically a flechette-laden incendiary designed to minimize energy use while still tearing through our enemies; an easy thing, really, when any random detritus can be shoved into a mortar round." Pulling on his arm, she convinced him to hunker down behind a rusted crate. "It has to be ground based; probably fired from a mobile platform." She turned and fixed a dark optic on the medic. "Where's our patient?"

"Not far." Ratchet replied checking his scanner. "South by southeast; about 14 mechanometers."

The femme digested this for a moment before rising on her trods so that she could peer over the top of the crate, blue optics calculating. "That's where I figure the rounds are coming from."

"So, our patient is a hostage. _Wonderful_." Ratchet muttered. "Any idea how many 'Cons might be up there?"

She shook her head. "Not sure. At least two, one to fire and one keeping tabs on our patient, but other than that, there could be..." Io's voice cut out suddenly as her auditory receptors picked up the sound of another debilitator round being fired.

"Move!" She shouted.

Again, without hesitation, Ratchet leapt out from behind the crate and moved as quickly as his trods would carry him toward the remains of a small utility shed.

Io kept pace easily, her strides long and fluid. As she ran, her optics turned here and there, desperately searching for anything, even the slightest reflection or rogue glance that might betray the whereabouts of their assailants.

Behind them, less than an astrosecond later, the crate exploded.

Both 'Bots skidded to a not-so-graceful stop behind the shed, rocked as they were by the ensuing concussion. This time, however, they were far enough from the explosion that the shrapnel bounced harmlessly off of their armor.

Following the rain of churned earth, haze and debris, Io peered around the end of the shed and scanned the horizon through narrowed optics. Briefly, the haze parted, revealing three Decepticon drones.

The femme's lips twisted into a sly smirk.

One of the drones, a Vehicon, was sitting smugly atop a mobile weapons platform, the source of the debilitator rounds that were hampering their rescue efforts. The other two, both Eradicons, had their backs to their comrade, their attention focused on a prone Autobot mech. Laughing and talking amongst themselves to pass the time, periodically they delivered swift, sharp kicks to the injured 'Bot's grill.

A pathetic moan followed each assault, but other than that, the bulky 'Bot didn't move.

_Couldn't_ move was a more likely explanation.

The Vehicon stood up from the platform's control panel, and stared intently in Io's direction.

Io dimmed her optics. A particularly difficult optical color to detect from a distance, she didn't want to give him any help in pinpointing their coordinates, especially with nothing as banal as a simple stare.

She had seen too many go down that way.

Whether he saw them or not-the former unlikely-after a moment of careful observation, the Vehicon crossed his arms and relaxed his wheeled shoulder-caps. It was the universal sign of 'They're pinned down and there is nothing they can do about it.'

Turning his helm slightly, though not so completely as to lose Io and Ratchet's probable hiding area from his peripheral vision, he looked over at his friends and watched them as they continued their conversation.

The Vehicon smiled.

"I have a visual." Io said in a hushed whisper. "One Vehicon manning a W-platform, and two Eradicons kicking the axle grease out of our patient."

She scanned the area. Around them, junk littered the field, but this shed was the only sizeable cover for a toranometer or two.

Looking up at Ratchet, she continued. "It seems our only way out is through them, and they know it."

Ratchet took all of this in and nodded, his expression grim. She had led him as best as possible, considering it was nearly impossible to see anything through the lingering haze, but he couldn't help but be concerned about their ability to reach the wounded 'Bot before he expired.

Lifting his left bracer, the medic checked his scanner once again. The life signal, which had been in decline ever since they had first arrived at the station, had faded to near critical values. "We'll have to act quickly if we are to save him." He said sternly. Unlimbering himself, Ratchet rose from his crouch; not high enough to be seen by the 'Cons, but high enough to indicate his resolve, his hands transforming fluidly into two, handsomely ornamented blades. "We have no choice but to fight them off."

"Fighting them together will take too much time." Io replied with a shake of her head. "I have an idea, though."

The seasoned medic knew where this was going, and his optics narrowed disapprovingly. "Diverting their attention? _On your own_?" He growled, the tone of his voice causing the femme to flinch, noticeably. "Absolutely not!"

Turning her head, she met his intimidating, azure gaze, brow-ridges drawn down in annoyance. "W-platforms cannot be easily disabled by ground forces, as per their design. Furthermore, should we rush in and somehow survive, we would be fighting right on top of that wounded soldier." She paused and allowed her features to soften. "It's an exercise in futility, either way."

The medic lowered his head in contemplation. He hated to admit it, but Io had a point. There was a high probability that they could both be injured even before they engaged the 'Cons. Furthermore, hand-to-hand combat, as Io had argued, would take far too long, even with their combined efforts-drones though they might have been, they were tough-not to mention the fact that the Eradicons had flying alternative modes, placing himself and Io at a disadvantage should she choose to remain on the ground to better protect him.

As he considered this, his processors all but seized.

_It can't be..._ Ratchet thought suddenly, optics widening as he was assailed by thousands of threads of emotional and memory data. Every circumstance since they left the ground bridge: running through the charred remnants of a once bustling landscape, dodging death at the hands of ground-based artillery, his shield leaving him to distract a group of 'Cons from an injured Autobot, suddenly seemed to mirror the last few cycles that he had spent with his previous shield, Gamma.

It was like he was experiencing one of those "life after spark" moments that Jazz used to talk about.

For a moment, he had no idea what to do.

And it must have shown on his faceplate.

Io looked at him quizzically, almost worried, but the longer her charge said nothing, the more her features began to twist in anger.

It was this that broke him out of his unbidden reverie.

_No. Io was different_!

Gamma had had absolutely _no_ discipline whatsoever. If anything, Io had too much; or at least, he had tried to instill her with too much.

As much as he feared for her safety, and as difficult a thing as it was to consider, Ratchet slowly realized that he would have to have faith that the discipline she possessed-regardless if it was to the level he desired-was sufficient enough to see the diversion through.

"All right," he conceded, finally, meeting her gaze. "Just don't do anything...foolish." Expression softening, he wanted to add "I don't want to lose you," but be it embarrassment or his own, stubborn, pride, the medic's last words to her were: "Undoubtedly, I'll need your help before this is over."

Io considered all of this, almost bemusedly, truly stunned at this sudden change in his normally cantankerous personality.

It was as if he had shifted from stern, to thoughtful, to sad, to acquiescent in as many astroseconds.

_I wonder if he finally gets it..._ she thought, rising to her full height, a pleasant smile playing across her lips. "I won't let you down," she said with confidence, lightly rapping his shoulder with the back of her hand.

Ratchet's smile broadened at the gesture, even as a grim wave of foreboding lashed at his spark.

"The moment I get airborne, move," Io said seriously, after a pause, now that the time for action had come. "The sound of my engines may draw a round or two this way."

Giving him one last look, she took several small steps to clear the shed and transformed. In a series of motions, all of which were as graceful and controlled as anything he had ever seen, Io crouched low, coiling the servos and bands in her legs, and executed a balletic leap that carried her high into the air, her body parts rotating, tucking away, and rearranging artistically.

As she completed her transformation, her alt-mode seemed to pause dramatically-aerial alts always did as they ignited their thrusters-dropping slightly under the influence of gravity, and then she was off.

Zipping away into the distance, Ratchet couldn't help but watch her progress with rapt attention. No matter that he had seen this very thing many times in the five _orns_ that he had known her, or that he was standing in a war-zone near a 'Bot that needed severe medical attention surrounded by several that wanted to snuff his spark, he couldn't help but see it as a thing of beauty.

The thought was in his processor before he knew it, and the moment, itself, seemed to last for several _groons_.

A familiar whistling sound snapped the medic away from his musings, and with a dissatisfied shake of his head, as if angry with himself for having lapsed into such a diversion of thought in the middle of a battlefield, he leapt out from behind shed and started off toward the probable location of the injured mech.

He only hoped that Io could kill Decepticons as well as she could argue a point.

The debilitator round that had prompted his evacuation plowed into the ground far to his left and exploded, showering the shed, and surrounding environs, with burning shrapnel. Another round-something that surprised him greatly considering that he had only heard one-sailed wildly over his head and detonated, without effect, some 20 mechanometers distant.

The mist swirled in the aftermath of both explosions, coiling menacingly before allowing the medic a quick glimpse into the distance.

What he saw gave him pause.

He could see Io crouching on the control panel of a W-platform in a pose that was elegantly reminiscent of their first meeting. Slumped over the seat behind her, wounds still smoking and disgorging sickening quantities of energon, was the Vehicon operator.

Now very much deceased.

Ratchet's optics widened, and some of the dread that had been plaguing his spark since Io's departure vanished. To say that he was impressed would have been an understatement, but he had little time to consider.

Both of the Eradicons, having forgotten about the maimed Autobot at their trods, were staring at Io, their crimson optics wide with disbelief, as if seeing their comrade taken out by a flying femme was the last thing they ever would have expected.

Still at a crouch, Io smirked-the same smirk that she had used when mocking Crossarm, an expression that practically screamed 'Well... look...at...me'-and brandished the Autobot logo on her right wing.

Growing with fury, both Eradicons charged forward to intercept her.

With a laugh, she leapt easily out of their way and transformed. "Come and get me, boys," she cooed, disappearing into the haze with a dull roar.

Transforming quickly into their aerial alt-modes, the Eradicons took to the air, engines screaming as they gave chase.

Ratchet waited to a count of ten astroseconds, long enough to rule out the possibility of detection by a backwards sensor sweep, and time enough, also, for his processors to fixate on the whole "two on one" thought with some dread, before starting off toward the injured 'Bot.

It wasn't an easy journey.

True, it was short enough, but the remaining distance, a tangled, twisted morass littered with burned out G-regs and sleds, was, to his horror, also filled with dozens of mutilated bodies that he had to force himself to ignore.

At the end, to his great relief, the red-and-white medic encountered an injured but still living Autobot, though his arrival looked to be a close thing. He had seen battle-field injuries worse than this, but after having been shot by a debilitator round-what he assumed to be responsible for the damage given his recent experiences-and being repeatedly kicked, the large mech was in a sorry state.

Ratchet raised his right bracer and scanned his patient, optics flickering as his processors absorbed the raw data: electro pulse, energy efficiency, energon stores, line pressure...all of his real-time vital specs; everything that he needed to reach a preliminary diagnosis.

Optics regaining their former intensity, he opened his medical kit and pulled out a small, energon bearing syringe, the color of which would have appeared "off" to anyone outside of the medical field. Laced with various chemical compounds-among them _goranon_ to dull the 'Bot's pain receptors, and _veranthisin_ to boost his production of clotting filaments-the fluid in the vessel was not blue, but rather a curious shade of purple.

With care, Ratchet turned his patient's arm, slipped his fingers beneath the thick, swept-back armor adorning his bracers, and injected the contents of the syringe into the yielding mesh of his protoform.

Casting the empty vessel aside, the medic withdrew his welder and immediately set to work rinsing out, and fusing some of the larger, more freely leaking-wounds.

Closing off the first of many lacerations, the medic couldn't help but frown.

_It never gets any easier._

Sighing internally, Ratchet moved on to the next wound.

As he labored, he increased the sensitivity of his audio receptors. With Io missing, he was effectively on his own, and the last thing he needed was someone assailing him from behind when it could have been avoided.

Io.

_Where was she now? _He wondered.

As he did so, the filter of unconscious action erected by all battlefield medics threatened to break. It was simply too easy for him, given all of the horrors that he had seen and experienced-through decades of war-to envision her, wounded and alone, lying in a pool of her own energon.

Shaking his head to clear the grizzly image from his processor, he moved on to the 'Bot's right leg, a vicious tear that tapered toward his knee joint. The angle of the injury suggested that the round had exploded near the 'Bot's trods, shrapnel scoring his lower half. It wasn't life-threatening, but given the necessity that he would need to be moved for final treatment, steadier legs would aid egress.

Especially considering his size.

Ratchet was hard-pressed to believe that he could move such a massive mech on his own without giving the patient some limited mobility.

After finishing that weld, Ratchet used his scanner to update the 'Bots vitals. The energon injection, combined with the body work that had already been done, had slowed his patient's rate of energon loss, considerably.

Unfortunately, there were also internal factors to consider.

And as Ratchet initiated repairs further down his leg, he couldn't help but second-guess his decision to let Io go.

Internal repairs required either small hands or specialized equipment, neither of which Ratchet possessed-the former being a product of his physiology, the later being due to space limitations in his medical kit.

He needed Io-her dexterous hands, specifically-in order to stabilize the mech long enough to bridge him back to the clinic; failing to do so with haste could have potentially lethal repercussions for his patient.

_Preposterous, _Ratchet thought shaking his head. _If not for Io, I wouldn't be in a position to lament such things_. Frowning, he moved on to the next wound. _ I should trust her more. She did exactly what she said that she would do, so she can't be all bluster like Gamma was._

He paused.

_When this is all over, maybe I'll..._

Suddenly, a noise caught his audio receptors.

Head snapping up, along with his left hand, bladed weapon already drawn, the medic braced himself for an attack. Especially when he realized that whoever it was had already closed to a few mechanometers.

He was surprised-and, though he would never admit it-elated to see Io; he had been fearing the appearance of some energon-coated, Nova Class warrior like Lugnut or Megatron.

Other than a few minor injuries-she was missing her right, top-mounted blaster, and she bore the hastily welded remnants of several, nasty lacerations on her left wing and chest plates-she had obviously fared better than the Eradicons who had given chase.

And she was covered with enough energon that couldn't all be hers to satisfy the nucleus of his dread.

The relief that he felt in his spark must have propagated all the way to his face-plate, for his lips stretched into a broad smile.

And she smiled in return. Granted it amounted to a brief upturn of her lips that disappeared suddenly, as if she realized what she had been doing and was embarrassed, but it had been there, nonetheless.

Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, Ratchet turned his attention back to his patient. "Could you lend me a hand?" He asked not bothering to look at her a second time.

The former Decepticon cocked her head. "You _actually _want my help?" She asked, her voice sounding mildly astounded.

"Yes, Io. I'm asking for your help," The medic retorted, gruffly. "Diagnostic scans indicate substantial internal trauma. If he's going to survive long enough for us to move him, I need you to open his chest and repair some of the more substantial damage. You'll find everything you need in my kit."

For a moment, Io could only stare at him in amazement.

Then, realizing that their patient couldn't afford any more hesitation, Io stowed her hex-cannons and hurried to Ratchet's side.

Using one hand as a brace, she ran her frame welder, in low power mode, down a difficult to discern seam bordering his medial plate.

The mech's autonomous systems kicked in after that, and his chest plates slid gracefully apart, transforming and tucking neatly out of the way, allowing Io access to most of his vital components.

As with all Cybertronians, the spark chamber-that all-important vessel that not only pumped energon throughout their body, but housed their very life essence-dominated his chassis. Below and slightly behind the spark chamber was his energy cistern and primary energon converter. The cistern was intact, though the converter had a few noticeable, and also leaking, stress fractures.

Io only lingered over this revelation for a fraction of an astrosecond. The converter, along with other components such as the spark chamber and T-cog, were biomechanical in nature, and as such would require the expertise of a skilled surgeon to be properly repaired.

She followed the main energon lines out and away from his spark chamber. Thankfully, none of them had completely ruptured; if they had, the mech would already be dead. However, she did notice a small, longitudinal tear along the distal portion of his number-four line.

That would have to be her first repair. Tears in the main lines, no matter how insignificant, could easily become life-threatening should hydraulic pressure change...as would assuredly happen the moment they attempted to move him.

Pulling Ratchet's tool kit closer to her, she considered its contents and removed several clamps and a suture kit.

Moving quickly and methodically, she clamped the number-four line proximal to the spark chamber, just above the tear, stemming the energon flow almost immediately. A second clamp was placed below the tear to prevent back-leakage.

Opening the suture kit, she removed the contents-a diamond-tipped needle pre-threaded with short length of Seri-chord-and began to sew.

Pushing a needle through an energon line was a difficult process for something so sensitive and delicate. Made of flexcord, like all internal lines, it was durable enough to withstand abrasion from both armor and chassis, not to mention flexible enough to deal with the complex manipulations that occurred during transformation. Sewing one closed, therefore required a significant amount of force but with careful control so as not to extend the tear or cause it to kink. The first stellar cycle of Cybertronian medical training-even with the accelerated and only-what-is-essential logic inherent to Decepticon medicine-focused _solely_ on this! As such, it took only a few cycles to repair.

In short order, after a self-satisfying inspection, Io removed the clamps allowing energon flow to resume through the repaired vessel. As with all sutures, it leaked a bit around the edges, but this would shortly stem as the mech's own repair systems took over.

But there was more to be done.

Smaller breaches plagued his secondary energon lines, though here, the injuries were not life-threatening.

They could wait until later.

Turning her attention toward the perimeter of his chassis, she next considered his coolant system.

Immediately her eyes widened.

His main coolant line had been severed by a rogue shrapnel shard. Considering the damage, it was a wonder that the mech hadn't overheated and died. Following the same procedure as she did with the tear in his number four, she clamped the line, married the edges, and sewed the laceration shut.

As she worked, Ratchet's scanner bathed the mech's body in red laser-light.

"Once you're done there, he should be stable enough to move," Ratchet said after he had processed the data.

Nodding, Io finished her last few stitches, tied off the string, and then closed his chest by lightly touching the side of his chassis.

"I need a bridge to my coordinates." Ratchet said activating his com-link. "I'll also need some help getting him into the clinic," he added considering the still unconscious mech out of the corner of his optics.

No sooner than the words were spoken, the air to his right thickened, began to swirl, and sprang to life in a myriad of green and blue plasma. Several astroseconds later, a nurse-the glider with down-turned wings that they had passed in the main hall-appeared appeared from the well, clearly nervous as he searched the gloom for Ratchet and his shield.

"Here." Ratchet said, gruffly, and the nurse hurried across the blackened ground with sharp, nervous strides. On arrival, the winged mech leaned forward and lightly grabbed Ratchet's patient by the bracer. Ratchet moved in to assist, hands supporting the large mech's backside, and between the two of them, they were able to lift the large 'Bot. "Io," Ratchet said softly, turning his head so that he could look at her. "Cover the bridge until I return."

Io considered his tone with a curious gleam in her optics, though she was quick to nod her understanding.

The red-and-white medic nodded in return, his lips drawing into a reassuring smile.

Then, hefting the dead-weight of the mech between them as they walked, Ratchet and the nurse started down the bridge vortex.

It was slow going. Even after Io's repairs-which were amazingly well done, he couldn't help but notice-Ratchet didn't want to risk exacerbating any of the non-repairable injuries by handling him roughly. And the subtle change in pressure of the energy vortex always had a chance of popping weak seals if they didn't move through just so.

After what seemed too long a time, the medi-bots felt the familiar tug of the vortex containment field that signaled the entrance to the clinic. Ratchet arrived to find it filled, just as Crossarm had promised, with an army of waiting medics and nurses, all of whom were standing beside mobile berths.

Sadly, it was clear from the number of idle personnel that the battle, like hundreds of other skirmishes, had not been kind to the Autobot cause.

That is, unless they were unreasonably efficient.

One of the orderlies, a tall, aggressively-built femme, wheeled a berth close enough for Ratchet and his companion to lay out the injured mech, every motion and movement supervised intently through stern, aquamarine optics.

Without saying a word, she turned the berth toward the main hall and disappeared though the massive bay doors without so much as a second glance at Ratchet or the nurse that had assisted him.

Which left Ratchet to thank the winged nurse for his help, and traverse the bridge back to Gorn Station.

Back to Io and the next patient.


	7. Chapter 6 part 2: Desperation

The return to Gorn Station was quick and uneventful.

Yet, as Ratchet's trods left the ground bridge vortex in favor of the ravaged, metal substrate of the relay station, he couldn't help but take a startled step backwards when he noticed that Io's optics were not focused on the horizon, as they should have been, but rather on the ground beneath her right trod.

The seasoned medic followed the direction of her stare, and noticed that the loose metal and debris had been perturbed, almost as if the femme had purposefully moved the tip of the limb back and forth over top the detritus.

Almost as if she was trying to bury something.

Straining his optics, the medic saw what looked to be energon, dirty and contaminated, filling voids in the underlying metal substrate.

The pessimist in him immediately hypothesized that it might be her energon, that she had been wounded worse in her altercation with the Eradicons than she had admitted and that she was trying to keep the injury a secret.

It was something he could easily imagine her doing, especially in light of their earlier disagreement.

As the ground bridge closed behind him, the faint hum of energy dying away into nothing, Io turned her head and considered him. A flicker of emotion-something that the old medic had seen before but couldn't place-danced across her optics.

When she next spoke, her words assuaged his concerns.

"When you moved the mech," she began, softly. "Some of the energon that had pooled in his chassis leaked out onto the ground." Turning her head toward the horizon, she added. "It didn't seem right to just leave it there, uncovered, for all to see."

Ratchet couldn't help but smile.

Sometimes, during the thick of war, it was difficult to remember basic observances, especially in regards to fallen and/or wounded allies. Spilled energon, following the old ways, should be treated with dignity and respect. It should be collected for proper disposal or at least covered, as Io had done; unfortunately this was often overlooked in favor of haste.

And because there was just so damn much of it.

Leaving it exposed was nearly as severe an atrocity as not burying their dead. Which, to Ratchet's continuing chagrin, they had been forced to do as well. In most cases, they had to leave the dead where they died in favor of finding and saving the living. Realistically, with energon being in such short supply, they simply couldn't justify expending the energy necessary to remove and excavate graves for the millions of Cybertronian bodies that had amassed since the war began.

Perhaps, when the war was won, they could go back and do so.

At least, Ratchet hoped that would be the case.

Still smiling-a sad, and troubled smile, but a smile, nonetheless-Ratchet opened his bracer and considered their next move.

"I've got another energy reading; this one, two kliks to the west."

Io nodded, and started off in that direction, not at a full-out sprint as she had earlier, but at a slower seemingly more cautious run.

Ratchet smiled, internally, and set himself at a light trot to keep pace. She was learning, that much was certain, and it filled him with a sort of paternal pride to see her skills evolve so quickly.

_If only Gamma would have lived long enough to learn this_, Ratchet thought. It was a true statement, but considering how it seemed Io _had_ improved, it wasn't as bitter as he had expected it would be. _She doesn't seem to be letting her success with those Eradicons go to her head._

A smile flitted across his lips. _Perhaps she's finally learned the discipline I was trying to impress on her_.

Whatever the reason, the seasoned medic thanked the All-Spark and focused his attention on his "new" shield.

After a _breem_, Io raised her hand in a "hold" gesture. Obediently, trusting her senses better than his own, Ratchet slowed and took refuge behind the first large obstacle that he could, a mound of twisted metal that may have once been a generator.

Hex-cannons and optics roving the haze for any sign of danger, Io moved out of sight so as to scout ahead.

Immediately, Ratchet forced himself to squash the apprehension that sprang up at her solo reconnaissance. After seeing her in action earlier, he knew, full-well, that the small femme was anything but helpless. Instead, he tested his feelings, his own ability to trust her more.

Much to his relief, Io reappeared after a few cycles and gave the "all clear" sign, whereupon they continued their transit.

And so they traversed the battlefield, pausing every _breem _or so, Io taking point and scouting ahead, Ratchet holding back until she signaled that the way was clear.

Truly a safer means of traversing a war-zone, but the delay, as minute as it was, was too much for some of the wounded. This was true of their second patient. No sooner than they closed in on his signal, his spark faded from Ratchet's sensors.

Not wanting to endanger more lives by lingering where their skills were no longer useful, the two medi-bots immediately worked their way southward toward another signature. This one, like the one before, faded before it could be reached.

There was only one more life-sign within the range of Ratchet's sensor. Moving more quickly than before-oddly like their initial pell-mell transit-as if driven by the need to at least "break even," they covered the distance as efficiently as they could while still on the lookout for potential enemies.

Leaving the sounds of the battle far behind them, and moving into an area that was decidedly more built up than what they had experienced so far, they closed in on their next signal.

The fires here were smaller, leading both Ratchet and Io to conclude that this area had likely been decimated during the first wave of the attack.

As with all dying fires, there was abundant smoke. Thickening to the point they had to rely primarily on their sensors rather than line-of-sight, their forward progress slowed considerably. Puffs of ash leapt up from the ravaged substrate with every step they took, muffling their trod-steps and further confounding their already taxed senses.

"I can't tell mech from mail in this," Io said dropping back.

"Indeed." Pausing, Ratchet checked the readout on his bracer, once again, and was shocked to discover that he could hardly discern the data. Bringing the screen closer to his optics and brushing some of the ash away with a flick of his free hand, he studied it intently. "We're getting close." Turning, he pointed toward a portion of the haze that seemed darker and more foreboding than the rest. "That way."

Io nodded and trained her cannons. Advancing cautiously, the femme was surprised to discover that the darkened mote was not a looming adversary, as she had originally feared, but the burned out remains of a building-Gorn Station's primary relay tower.

They didn't have to advance far before they found their next patient, a small, lightly built, yellow-and-red mech, who lay motionless, curled up at the base of a communications array.

At the sound of their approach, the diminutive 'Bot started, jerking his head up and around and considered them with apprehension. "I told you I don't know anything else, I..." His voice cut off as his gaze happened upon the Autobot logo adorning Ratchet's chest. "Autobots?" He asked, sounding relieved. "Thank the All-spark!"

He tried to push himself into a sitting position, his right hand scrabbling for purchase, and his right leg sliding under him to bear his weight. It might have worked had he not been missing the most of latter appendage. "Ungh! Blasted 'Cons!" He growled through gritted dental plates, as his body slumped to the floor with a dull thud.

Fresh energon disgorged heavily from the severed limb. "Don't move." Ratchet insisted. "I Don't want you leaking to death on my watch."

The mech nodded wearily at this. "Sure thing, Doc."

Rolling his eyes at being addressed by such a menial identifier as "Doc"-it was hard to believe even a dying 'Bot could jape him-Ratchet turned his head so that he could look at Io.

"'Keep a look out'? She asked, as if she could read his thoughts.

Ratchet nodded, his lips turning in a slight smile.

"Understood," Following her cannons, the femme disappeared into the haze.

Ratchet immediately set to work clamping the end of the main energon line that fed the 'Bot's severed limb. Once that was done, flushed out the wound with a syringe of mech-fluid, and welded a temporary patch to what remained of his femoral plates. As this was all the more he could do for the injured 'Bot, he activated his com-link and contacted Io. "Are we clear?"

For several long moments, she didn't reply.

"Io?" Ratchet pressed.

"Sorry," she answered soon after. "I lost you there for a cycle; seems as though the ash is interfering with my 'com. I haven't seen anything. Are you bridging him out?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be back short-" her voice cut off with a bit of static. "-ly."

Nodding, Ratchet contacted the clinic. "I need a bridge to my coordinates," he said even as he helped the injured 'Bot to his remaining trod.

Nothing happened, however, for _two _full cycles. No ground bridge and no Io.

It made Ratchet decidedly nervous.

While Io may have had a distance to cover through the ashen-gray haze, groping about with only sensors for guidance, a ground bridge shouldn't have been an issue. Only three times during the war had anyone experienced difficulty forming a ground bridge vortex and all three had ended badly.

When the bridge finally did appear, bathing the room in a vibrant, emerald glow, Ratchet couldn't help but eye it suspiciously. That was all he needed: to rescue a patient only to be scattered to the ends of Cybertron by some weird phase shift.

Io appeared less than an astrosecond later and this deflected his mind from possible doom.

At least for a moment.

Considering her, he couldn't help but notice that she seemed a bit starry-eyed.

"Are you alright?" He asked, softly, brow-ridges drawing down in concern.

Nodding, though not meeting his gaze, she lowered her head and answered. "Yeah, I'm fine. Probably just the ash." Her voice faded abruptly, and she turned to survey the room. "Go on." She said after a moment. "Get him back to the clinic. I'll keep watch..."

Warning sirens were going off in Ratchet's processors, though before he could give the matter another thought, the wounded 'Bot doubled over, clutching his chest. "Ungh...that didn't feel good." He grunted with effort.

"Scrap!" Ratchet cursed. Stooping, he lifted the mech, and carried him carefully, yet quickly across the room and into the vortex.

As soon as Ratchet passed through the containment barrier, he was able to quickly hand the injured 'Bot off to an anxious-faced nurse.

"Thanks, Doc." The yellow-and-red mech said as he lay back against the soft padding of the berth. "I 'ppreciate the help." He took Ratchet's hand and shook it, weakly. "Hey," he added with a light chuckle. "Give my regards to that cute shield of yours."

Suppressing the desire to roll his optics, Ratchet merely smiled.

The mech returned the expression and was promptly wheeled out of the bay by his nurse.

Shaking his head, though elated at spark to know that the mech was in such high spirits, Ratchet started back toward the bridge.

He got three paces toward the swirling energy vortex when Crossarm's voice sounded over his 'com. "Optimus has ordered all medical personnel out of the field. The 'Cons are sending another wave in a pincer action to try and trap any remaining Autobot forces. All of you retreat, now. "

It was a pronouncement that was authoritative and arrogant.

And matter-of-fact.

It had to be when you were tasked with being the bearer of bad news, and you had said words similar to them over a dozen times in as many engagements.

Ratchet was impressed that his C.O.s voice didn't quaver. An aft though he might be, the clinic's cavalier, Head-of-Operations knew how to do his job.

But then, after a short pause, almost too small for Ratchet to detect, Crossarm added, "While you can..." A hint of either concern or regret edged into his voice.

_Not good_. Ratchet thought.

"Io? Did you get that," he said with some urgency, activating his own 'com.

There was a pause, and Ratchet moved to step into the vortex.

Thankfully, though Io answered: "Yes, sir, I'm en route."

Nodding, the medic stepped back from the bridge, and waited impatiently for her to join him.

Several astroseconds later, Io appeared, struggling slightly as she fought the containment barrier.

She looked tired.

This was unsurprising; he was tired as well. It had been a long, trying day for both of them; mentally as well as physically. And for a moment, his earlier concerns were laid to rest; such fatigue would easily explain the unusual behavior that he had observed just before bridging their last patient to the clinic.

As he watched her, he couldn't help but smile. Recalling the events of the day, Io had certainly earned his respect. Not only was she a decent medic-her field-suturing skills were, truthfully, some of the best he had seen in a while-but she had proved herself to be a very able warrior, courageous enough to take on mechs that were three times her size, and combat-talented enough to defeat them.

As she passed through the barrier, Ratchet decided congratulations were in order, and as she trudged toward him, he opened his mouth to offer his praise.

But the words never left his lips...

Io paused, legs trembling as she raised her optics to meet Ratchet's ever increasingly concerned stare. Then, seemingly in slow motion, she dropped to one knee, teetering unsteadily for a moment, before collapsing onto her side, energon hemorrhaging from her right bracer.

"Io!" Ratchet exclaimed sprinting to her side.

The femme's optics fluttered open at the sound of his voice, though she seemed to be having difficulty focusing her gaze; her lips moved weakly as if to speak.

"Shuss," he urged softly, taking her wrist gently in his fingers. Turning her arm, he examined her _tair_, the joint connecting the forearm to the upper arm. Just below the joint, hidden by the overhanging rear-hub of her bracer, Ratchet noticed a deep puncture wound that extended far enough into her protoform to sever the main energon line in that arm.

Ratchet's optics widened, though it was not severity of the wound, itself, which gave him pause.

This was _not_ a new injury.

It had been patched, at least five or six separate times if the scoring marks on her bracer were any indication. However, no matter how skilled the medic, it was almost impossible to sew a severed line shut with one hand and it was only slightly easier to properly patch a highly mobile joint like the tair without assistance.

His spark sunk, and his optics widened even more as his processor pieced everything together.

She had been hiding a potentially fatal wound from him the entire time they were in the field.

The energon that she had covered up earlier _had _been hers, and all the "scouting" that she had done had likely been a ruse, a way to relieve pressure on the joint as energon accumulated in her bracer cavity. This would have involved ripping the seam of the patch and expelling the excess energon, something that could easily be done by just stepping out of his line-of-sight for a few cycles.

_But...why would she do something so foolish?_ He wondered even as he pulled a tourniquet wrap out of his medical kit and began winding it tightly around the pliable mesh of her upper arm. _Why would she hide the wound?_

Then, feeling like he had been blindsided by a Wrecker, Ratchet's processor answered its own query.

_She wanted to prove herself._

_After months of my nit-picking, she wanted to show me that her skills had merit; that she was valuable..._

Frowning, feeling his spark tighten, the medic closed his medical kit and gently lifted the small femme into his arms. Exhausted, Io slumped against his chest, injured arm dangling over his bracer. Adjusting the limb so that it rested over her grill, Ratchet started for the main hall, ignoring the concerned glances, and offers of aid proffered by his colleagues.

*BR-74 is open.* A familiar voice-that of his friend Triage-suggested over his private com-link frequency.

*Thanks, Triage.* Ratchet replied doubling his pace.

*You're welcome, boss-bot.*

Normally, the red-and-white medic would have rolled his optics at the ridiculous nickname that Interlink and the others had bestowed upon him decades ago, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but his thoughts were all on Io.

Moving quickly, not wanting to delay Io's treatment any longer, Ratchet, with his long strides, reached BR-74 in less than a cycle. Anyone knowing him would have said he had sprinted, but appearances were the least of his concern. As the door opened to receive him, the bright green overhead lights snapped on and the machinery along the walls sprang to life in a flurry of mechanized trills.

After placing his shield on the berth, he moved around the room quickly and methodically, removing various tools and implements from the shelves and placing them on a small, mobile cart. Once he had everything he needed, he wheeled the cart over to the berth, pulled up a bench, and began to work.

One of the tools that Ratchet had purposed was a pair of specialized gauntlets. Meant for larger medics, the device was essentially a small hand, each of the tiny digits controlled, puppeteer style, by subtle motions of his fingers.

With them, he could perform fine-scale repairs that would otherwise have been impossible to do with his own hands. The kind of actions that he couldn't do in the field even with Io's help.

After flushing as much energon as he could from the cavity, he seized one end of the line with two of prongs. The others snagged the severed, second half. Fortunately, the tear had been clean and both ends married neatly. Pulling a suture pack from the cart, Ratchet gently picked up the pre-threaded needle with his other gauntlet, and began to sew the line back together, his movements calculated, and methodical.

"Io?" He asked, gently.

A sigh fluttered across her lips as her optics slowly opened. Rather than look at her charge, she focused her gaze on an interesting scuff-mark on the otherwise polished ceiling. "Go ahead," she began, her voice soft, yet trembling with emotion. It was weak. Barely able to be heard over the machinery, but as his attention was all on her, it sounded loud and clear. "Y-yell at me for doing something stupid." She paused for a moment, as if gathering her strength. "That's your job, isn't it?"

Feeling a sudden stab of pain in his spark, he turned and looked at her, brow ridges raised in disbelief.

_Have I really been that overbearing for her to...to hate me? Even when I'm trying to help?_

Lowering his head, Ratchet sighed, and continued his work. "I wasn't going to yell at you," he said after several awkward moments, his voice glitching slightly toward the end as she snorted at his comment. Tying off the last stitch, he slowly unwrapped the tourniquet. Setting this aside, Ratchet removed his right gauntlet, withdrew his welder, and began to repair the torn mesh along her _tair_. "I know you probably don't believe me, but I'm just glad that you're alive." Immediately he froze. It wasn't like him to divulge his feelings to others, and he couldn't help but feel angry, not to mention embarrassed, with himself for having done so.

Frowning, he finished his work and pushed himself slowly from the table. Not willing to meet her gaze, Ratchet climbed to his trods and began cleaning up his work station, all the while dreadfully waiting for her to laugh at or viperously rebut his statement.

Much to his surprise, she remained silent.

As he placed the gauntlets in the room's autoclave for sterilization, the medic couldn't help but glance over at her out of the corner of his optic.

Io was staring at him, the expression on her face unreadable. Then, shaking her head, she pushed herself to a sitting position, and swung her legs out and over the edge of the berth, trods dangling freely in the large, concave space offered by the berth's specialized undercarriage.

"What do you think you're doing?" Ratchet demanded, firmly, fixing her with the full intensity of his stare.

Ignoring her surgeon, arms and legs shaking noticeably, she pushed herself forward so that she could slide gracefully, yet slowly, off the edge of the berth, claws digging deeply into the padding for extra support. Stretching out and planting one trod solidly on the cold, metal floor of the lab, she gradually allowed the limb to support more and more of her weight as she lowered herself down to the floor using her uninjured arm.

"Io?" he tried again, this time his voice was soft, almost pleading.

Bringing her other trod to bear, eventually the femme was standing, albeit shakily. Keeping the berth on her left side, she used it for support as she made her way toward the door, her legs trembling as she walked with slow, uneven steps.

As she reached the end of the berth, she paused and slowly removed her hand so that she was standing on her own. Optics focused on the door less than a mechanometer away, she took one tenuous, unassisted step before promptly collapsing to her knees.

A pained expression twisted Ratchet's features as he hurried to her side. Gently, not wanting to startle her, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and said as unobtrusively as he could possibly manage. "You lost a lot of energon. You need to rest."

"I-I can't." She gasped, trying weakly to shove him away. Set off balance by the abruptness of the motion, she teetered for a moment on her good arm before sagging against him. Her head lolled to the side, coming to rest against his chest and, though she seemed nearly delirious, the look on her face-plate could have been none other than embarrassment.

In a list of expressions Ratchet could have considered, this would not have made even the bottom ten. In fact, he was so surprised by it that he nearly dropped her.

Granted, this was the closest they had been to each other since the start of her "tutelage," but it wasn't for romantic feelings that he felt uncomfortable.

_She almost died and she's embarrassed?_ He couldn't help but be taken aback, his processors whirring mightily.

_Why? Because I found out about her ruse?_

Ratchet-ironically enough, on one of his first forays-had done something similar, tried to hide a potentially lethal injury from his charge. Most first-time shields did as a pride thing; one doesn't want to be given new responsibilities only to create questions of inadequacy.

_It can't be that much different with the Decepticons, _He thought, lowering his head in contemplation. _Well...perhaps more so given their harsh measures of control._

_But...Io would have gotten over all that decades ago, even considering her new position with the Autobots._

No, the look on her face had been so much more than a punctured 'indestructibility bug.'

_But why?_

And then it hit him. The ruse had been so cleverly defined, so orchestrated and timed that, he might never have discovered the injury. She obviously didn't want him considering that her first solo mission may not have been the best strategy.

She had been trying to prove herself to him.

And not just in battlefield might.

She had been trying to show him that she could think for herself, that she could make valuable decisions.

His spark quavered as he considered the larger picture, remembering their previous argument.

It had been _his _overbearing tactics that had pushed her to this.

Nothing she had ever done had been right. That was what she had insinuated; that he talked down to her. And now he had given her freedom, if reluctantly. He had treated her like an equal. She probably felt that now...he would go back to treating her as inadequate.

_I really am a slag-munger_. The medic thought bitterly.

Sighing, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her back to her berth. She tried to protest, pushing against his medial-plate to get away, but she was much too weak, her claws only managing to score tiny grooves in his finish. Realizing this, she began to mumble about not being weak, about doing this on her own.

Tut-tutting as he always did with a recalcitrant patient, Ratchet delicately set her down on the berth, making sure that all portions of her wings were laid out flat before committing her full weight to the pad.

He then put her into stasis, securing her with flexcord around the bulk of her chassis, and adjusting the energon replenishers to account for her smaller mass.

Her optics fluttered for a moment, as if she was trying to fight against the irresistible pull of mechanical sleep, but then they went still.

_All of this is my fault... _he lamented, bitterly.

And as he looked down at her, he couldn't help but realize that, somehow...someway, he would have to make it right.

Lowering his head in contemplation, Ratchet turned off the lights and exited the room.


	8. Chapter 7: Acquiescence

To those people that have been following and reviewing the story, I really appreciate it. I'll be sending out personalized messages here in a bit, once the in-laws head home. :D

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"Ungh…" Io mumbled as her optics fluttered open.

For several long moments, her processor struggled lamely to understand the visual data, inundated as it already was by a constant, aching soreness that seemed to emanate from every bolt and servo in her body.

Aside from the ever-present hum of machinery that she had grown accustomed to since being stationed here, the room was dark and quiet. It was also quite big-a great deal more expansive than her own quarters.

Unfortunately, this didn't help. The clinic had many big rooms and without light, she could be in anything from isolation to intensive care.

Independent of her surroundings, she knew she was lying on her back-plate and she could tell she had been strapped to a berth as if someone feared she might injure herself by moving about.

_I just might_ , she thought as she flexed her appendages against the restraints.

_Have I been beaten?_

It sure felt like it.

_Maybe I'm in intensive care…_

The room began to lighten, signaling the return of her vision and she quickly cast about for familiar signs.

And groaned.

A curious blemish that appeared on the ceiling directly above her, completing somersaults with nauseating flourishes as her vision swam, announced her exact location and the reason she had been brought here.

_Ratchet._

Ratchet brought me here to patch up my arm…

Ignoring the bitter protests of her body, she turned her head, glancing around the room to see if he was nearby.

The room was empty.

Sighing, she rested her head back against the padding of the berth and closed her optics. _Why am I not surprised?_ She thought with a disappointed frown.

Part of her had hoped—perhaps naively so-that the battle had softened the spark of her ornery charge; that they had reached some sort of turning point in their relationship.

For a few, fleeting _groons_, Ratchet had even treated her like an equal; trusted her as a colleague and fellow warrior.

And last night…she heard in his voice and felt through his touch a gentleness that she would have never believed him capable of, especially when the medic should have been furious.

She had lied to him, after all.

Shrugging her shoulders irritably, she couldn't help but wonder why she had done it….

Even though the answer was obvious.

After having seemingly gained "ground" in his spark, she didn't want to lose that respect. And if Ratchet somehow found out that she had been injured as a result of a decision he had only grudgingly accepted, there was no doubt in her mind that he would never let her do anything else on her own.

Ever.

She would be forever trapped in the oppressive "Ratchet is right" paradigm she had been working under these last few _orns_, which, if one were to overlook the fact that old medic hadn't beaten or violated her, wasn't all that much different from her life as a Decepticon.

Opening her optics, fighting back a sudden stab of self-loathing, the femme stared cheerlessly up at the ceiling, at that damnable blemish of unknown origin that mocked her from above.

_He's not here…_

Ratchet would have had an entire evening to critically consider her deception, the ruse that she had so carefully orchestrated.

_Cut…_

Weighed….

And judged…

Just like what happened at the Iacon Research Academy…

Shaking her head as she fought back yet another wave of unpleasant memories, the femme clenched her left fist. The fingers on her right hand twitched, though the pain in her tair prevented them from moving any more than this.

_I've ruined it all…_ She thought feeling her spark tighten. By not being honest with her charge regarding the nature of her injury, she had, undoubtedly, shattered any hope of ever being treated with any sort of respect. Ratchet's lack of presence here in the room seemed to underscore this conclusion, as his absence was likely an artifact ofher actions.

_If only…_

Her thoughts were put on hold as she detected a trace of motion out the corner of her right optic. Turning her head, she noticed a flashing green light illuminating a nearby computer console.

Her optics widened.

A flashing green light meant that there was a waiting message.

_Ratchet?_ She wondered.

_But why would he send me a message if he was angry?_

Her lips drew into a hopeful smile.

_Unless…_

As checking the message was the only way to be sure, she tilted her head and eyed the flexchord restraining strap that stretched across her chassis with a raised brow-ridge.

Shrugging her shoulders and pushing up against the berth with her trods, she managed to wiggle her right arm up enough to place the chord within the range of her welder. Withdrawing the implement, ignoring the searing wave of pain and nausea that accompanied the transformation, she severed the restraint and pushed herself into a sitting position with her not-so-sore left arm.

Stowing the welder and cringing at another stab of pain, she slid off the edge of the berth, planted her trods on the metal floor of the lab, and trudged eagerly over to the console.

Punching the green button with her index claw, Io wasn't at all surprised to hear Ratchet's familiar voice over the speakers. "Considering the nature of your injuries, I figured you would be coming around just about now and wouldn't consent to remaining immobile," he began with his usual, imperious mannerisms.

_As precise as a surgeon_, she chuckled to herself.

Then, changing to a more sympathetic tone, he continued. "If you're feeling well enough to work, I'll be in BR-42."

Placing her claws on her hip-plates, her processors whirred as she considered the possible permutations of his personality.

_Somehow he isn't angry_, she thought, and couldn't help but smile.

_And… after all that…_

She eagerly awaited the remainder of the message.

"But then again," he drawled, and Io could just imagine him stroking his chin-plate. "I'll probably get more work done if you're not there to break my equipment."

The message ended abruptly.

For a few astroseconds, the femme could do naught but stare at the console, her optics wide with disbelief.

"That son of a scraplet!" She growled through clenched dental plates.

Spinning on her heel-strut, she stormed toward the door-which only just opened in time for her to exit-and stomped out into the hall like a belligerent sparkling.

_I'll break more than his equipment!_ She thought, clenching her fists-ignoring yet another round of pain as she forced her right fingers to flex. With effort, she persuaded her legs and set off at a light sprint, her exhausted body protesting the action with every stride.

The discomfort was irrelevant. She was going to put that overly-pretentious, condescending, pain-in-the-aft in his proper place, even if was the last thing she ever did.

To shatter her hopes, seemingly renew them, and then squash them into oblivion made her feel like she had passed through a recycler!

Oh, he was in for it!

At the end of the hall, she noticed two familiar silhouettes-those of Triage and Interlink.

Even though they were carrying on in conversation-well, Interlink seemed to do most of the talking, while Triage merely listened, nodding and offering single-word responses from time to time-they were positioned in such a way that they could easily keep watch over her berth room.

Io's optics narrowed.

_He doesn't trust me to be on my own…_ She thought with a frown. _So…it really has gone back to that._ Pushing her legs harder, the pain quenching her anger, slightly, she pressed on. At her approach, both mechs considered her with curious optics. The taller of the two, Triage, turned and allowed a smile to play across his narrow face-plate, even as he raised his hands in a "stop" gesture.

It was Interlink, though, who said. "Hey! Good to see you again, Io. You know, you really shouldn't be running around so soon after…" His voice dropped off quickly when he realized she wouldn't be deterred.

Huffing several curses under her breath and skirting the stocky blue-and-white mech with a quick sidestep, daring him to say something but with a face that wouldn't have cared had he shouted, she darted out into the main corridor and began searching her databanks for the digital map of the clinic that Crossarm had given her.

Finding file quickly enough, she opened it…

And stopped dead in her tracks.

Sure enough, there was the clinic, replete with labeled hallways and berth rooms, just as she had expected. What shocked her, however, was the additional code that Crossarm had added to the program, taking the form of a garish blue marker that traced a line from her current position, left toward the central drop-shaft, vertically to the third floor of the clinic where it ended in a glowing blue box enclosing the largest room on that floor-Crossarm's personal quarters. A blurb of Autobot script, penned in the most decadent handwriting she had ever seen, had been added beneath the box. "For advanced education."

The irrational, wanting-to-bludgeon-Ratchet anger that had engulfed her spark for the past few astroseconds quelled at this, as it was almost impossible to remain angry when confronted with something so utterly unexpected.

Not to mention juvenile.

Sighing, shaking her head even as she located BR-42, Io couldn't help but think to herself. And here I thought he couldn't stoop any lower. _Unless…_ A sudden wave of curiosity compelled her to seek out Ratchet's lab on the map, LR-12. Sure enough, the code labeling his lab had been tweaked so that the writing appeared small and indistinct…utterly insignificant compared to the other rooms surrounding it.

_Wow…just…wow._ She mused, terminating the program.

_I would threaten to deal with him later, after I take down Ratchet, but given this, he would probably just interpret angry words as berth talk._

Sighing, she followed the main corridor northward,wondering just how someone like Crossarm could have possibly made it past basic training-let alone avoided all the brawls that his self-absorbed behavior should have instigated-striding briskly toward a tributary hall that was just at the limits of her vision.

Three cycles later, Io found herself staring at the metal door which enclosed the object of her annoyance.

Well, the biggest one of them anyway…

The marker, BR-42, glowed smartly below a small inset window and she stood looking at it for a moment.

She felt calm now, or at least calmer than she had felt after hearing Ratchet's insulting message. Crossarm's juvenility had seen to that.

But that didn't mean she was keen on entering.

She had to play this smart. If she wasn't careful, the magical maestro would wordsmith this into being completely her fault-when it was his actions that had driven her to it-and she had already made up her mind that she wasn't having any of that.

Not anymore.

But what was she to expect? Or better, how was she to deal with it?

The femme sighed as she realized that these questions, and others like them, were completely useless given Ratchet's seemingly shifting emotional states, unusual patterns of behavior, and cursed word probe.

_If he's going to act like an aft._ She thought shaking her head, _I'll just have to put him in his place._

As she reached for the door, her frown deepened.

_It's not like I have anything left to lose…_

With a touch on the doorplate, the portal opened revealing a busy workroom. The walls were cluttered, floor to ceiling, with all manner of machine parts, computer hardware, and welding equipment, and every surface that could be classified as desk-like was buried under mounds of the same.

One decidedly tidy counter harbored a focused Ratchet, whose aquamarine optics were pouring over an object that looked vaguely like a leg. The armor plating and underlying mesh had both been laid open, and as she watched, fascinated as she could only be when he was involved, the medic worked from line to line, circuit to circuit, actively checking and repairing the sensitive wiring with subtle motions of his gauntleted hands.

Aiding this, Ratchet wore a uniquely styled magnification device. Central to the apparatus was an oval-shaped visor held stationary over his right optic by _e'tcharian_ supports that fit snugly over his chevrons. Io had never seen anything like it in all her stellar cycles as a scientist, and she couldn't help but wonder if the device-as unique as it was-had been specifically designed for him.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts-this was hardly the time for stoking curiosity-she waited, silently, for the medic to notice her.

But Ratchet didn't look up from his work nor did he acknowledge her presence even when the door slid shut with an audible click.

Gritting her dental plates for the second time in less than a _groon_, the femme clenched her claws as a second wave of fury engulfed her spark, Crossarm's shameless antics a thing of the distant past as she glared at Ratchet's cold, unsympathetic back-plate.

_If that's the way you want to play…Fine._

Smirking darkly, she drew her claws down the metal face of the door, creating an audio-receptor-piercing screech that played off of the walls and clutter in a manner more irritating than she ever could have conceived.

At this, Ratchet turned and considered the small femme. The position of the magnifier's visor coupled with the vibrant glow of his optics, gave the mech a dark and somewhat feral appearance. Contrary to this, however, the expression on his face-plate was one of dull surprise, and he regarded her as if recognizing her presence for the first time. If his audio-receptors had perceived the "noise," the medic gave no sign, instead appearing as if he had been thoroughly engrossed with his work.

"Oh," he said, absently. "You're here."

Her brow ridges furrowed in anger.

So he had heard her. Warm energon suffused her face-plate at the unspoken insult.

Clenching her fists tightly, not willing to play into this obvious trap, the femme resolved not to give him the satisfaction of her anger, and held her _glossa_.

Or at least tried to…

"I must admit," he remarked with a subtle smirk. "You made it here much more quickly than I anticipated."

Her optics narrowed to slits. "Is there a point to this," She growled, unable to restrain herself. "Or did I miss the part where they train all doctors to insult and antagonize their shields?"

"Well, I figured my message would get your mind…working…" With what seemed to be a dismissive sigh, the medic turned his optics back to his pet-project and considered the dismantled appendage with a thoughtful optic. After several moments of deliberation, he pointed vaguely off to his left, the tiny prongs of his gauntlet twitching.

"Retrieve that _Torin_ wrench, would you?"

Io's optics widened and she blinked several times in astonishment. Then, just as quickly, her expression darkened and she nearly choked with apoplexy.

_This again?_ She wondered, considering the last time he had asked for her help. _He can't be that stupid to not see how… angry I am… So what is he…?_

The question half formed, Ratchet intruded upon her thoughts by adding. "You can use it to adjust that pivot-joint" he pointed towards a small,cup-shaped structure resting on a mound of parts cluttering the table to his immediate left. "You'll have to shorten the _sor_ and re-size the _sev_ so that it can be married to the hip-plate of a mech built from a standard _chiv'ha_ frame, protoform model 2E, with reversible hinge-and-lock suspension."

She blinked.

A Nova-class Decepticon warrior could have punched her in the face and she would have had more of a clue about what just happened.

Ratchet turned his head and considered her out of the corner of his optic. "You think you can do that for me?"

Completely at a loss for words, Io opened her mouth only to find her voice box incapable of producing sound.

The smirk returned to Ratchet's lips as he said. "If you find yourself incapable of doing it…"

Spurring her out of her surprised silence, Io shook her head. "No, I can do it…it's just…NO!" Stamping her trod and clenching her left fist, the femme glared at her charge through narrowed optics.

She shook her head. It was like clearing away Antarian cobwebs, thick, unyielding, and completely opaque.

_How does he always do this to me?!_

"I am not… I'm not going to play this game. And you…"She pointed at him with a trembling claw. "…are not going to sit there and act as though nothing is wrong." Moving closer, shoulder nacelles flaring angrily, she brought her face-plate close to his and growled in a cold, mechanical voice. "I am not going to do a _damn_ thing for you until you explain yourself."

Ratchet's optics flickered. That unspoken semblance, coupled with a quick upturn of his brow-ridges made it seem as though someone had just stabbed him in the spark. Half an astrosecond- and several quick blinks-later, the expression vanished behind his typical stern-faced façade. "Later," he replied, softly, not breaking her gaze.

"No." The femme insisted. Drawing even closer, she wrapped her claws menacingly around the top of his medial plate. Resisting the urge to dig the razor-sharp points into his finish, she fixed the older medic with a poisonous stare and growled. "We are going to discuss this _now_."

Seemingly unfazed by the femme's aggressive attitude, Ratchet glared back at her, his gaze distant and thoughtful. Then, finally, with a slight shake of his head, he lowered his optics and sighed. "Do you recall the yellow 'Bot that we rescued last night?"

Io blinked rapidly. Ratchet's refusal to neither discuss their relationship nor admit to any wrong-doing on his behalf was annoying, but expected. It was the way that he dodged her question, however, that took her by surprise.

Cocking her head, quizzically, she retracted her claws. "Yes…" she replied, a note of questioning in her voice.

"Even after working on him all night…" he paused, and Io could have sworn that she saw a glimmer of regret in his optics. "The extent of his injuries forced me to amputate what remained of his leg."

"Hmph, is that all." The former 'Con replied with a sneer as well as a dismissive wave of her hand. "Limbs can be replaced."

Ratchet's optics narrowed slightly at her indifference. "While that is normally the case,our patient served as a communication hub. His internals were custom created, designed specifically to receive, organize, transfer, and catalog billions of simultaneous data threads from every Autobot-controlled city on Cybertron." The medic lowered his head. "I was confident that we would be able to find a compatible replacement." Again, a flicker of regret. "I've tried everything…" He indicated the mounds of spare parts cluttering the room with a slight, backward nod of his helm. "But I've yet to find a single model that will work; his wiring is that unique."

As he spoke his shoulder-caps seemed to sag, as if bearing the weight of his concern, and his inability to find a quick fix. "Unless I can construct something that will work with his existing mods, that 'Bot will have no means of self-locomotion, nor will he be able to work a communication grid. He'll be an invalid for the rest of his existence."

Crossing her arms, Io sneered a second time. "Oooo, another mech to throw back into the thresher; how very noble of you."

Ratchet raised his optics and stared at her for a moment with a look of disbelief, as if he couldn't believe that she would have the audacity to say something so sparkless. Then, slowly, understandingly, he nodded. But this time, his optics were stern. "Look, I…" He paused for a moment as if choosing his next few statements carefully. "I understand that there are unresolved…issues between us."

Io's optics narrowed. "That's an understatement."

Ignoring her retort, the medic continued. "I also understand your anger…and frustration."

Io's expression softened slightly, though she remained silent.

"Now, however, is not the time to settle things."

"But…" she protested.

Ratchet cut her off with a raised finger. "Right now, there is a patient in need of assistance." He considered her once again but his optics had gentled. "It's going to take a lot of labor to get him up and walking again. And if I recall correctly, you've been wanting to help out with my work for some time, now."

Io's optics widened even further, and she found herself at a loss for words.

Again.

With a few carefully selected statements, her mentor had diffused the situation-both her anger and desire for a decisive argument.

Oh, she was still angry, true, but Ratchet had rendered her indignation temporarily pointless.

Consider: continuing the argument would have turned the tide of their disagreement, effectively forcing her from her self-justified high ground as she would have been the one then acting like an aft by purposefully ignoring a 'Bot in need of medical assistance.

Violating the oath she had sworn upon being admitted to the Academy.

Regardless of her initial comments and hostility, Io truly believed that each 'Bot had value; it was one of the principle things that truly distanced her spark from the Decepticons that she used to serve.

Granted, part of her wondered just why they were spending so much time on one 'Bot who would survive without their help. The Decepticons would never have considered assisting an amputee victim let alone recovering him for such time consuming repairs. Heck, they would have believed he had outlived his usefulness and left him to die without a second thought. It was hard for her to wrap her processor around the idea that the Autobots truly cared for one another, and not just as a means to an end.

But this was an argument for later.

_One of many arguments…_ She thought considering her mentor's last statement once again, a smirk finally tugging at the corners of her lips.

They would work out the imperfections of their relationship today; Ratchet had just delayed their final confrontation behind _groons_ of mind-numbing, focused work, couching it under the guise of duty, and the cold, hard logic that things would probably go faster if the old medic had an amenable partner to divide the work load.

Amenable…

Part of her found it ironic that her soft-spoken mentor had executed one of the most glorious case studies in verbal engineering she had ever seen.

Her smirk deepening, she met Ratchet's penetrating gaze. "Well played, Doctor."

The mech returned the expression, but only in his optics-something he was uncannily good at. Then, silently, he turned on his bench and resumed his work.

Walking past him, Io retrieved the _Torin_ wrench from the cluttered desk, pulled up a bench, and began modifying the part as per Ratchet's specifications.

For several cycles, the smirk remained on her lips. But, after a time, she began to really focus on her work and all thoughts but the task vanished. Modifications on any joint were difficult, but this required her utmost attention.

_No wonder why Ratchet needed my help_, she thought, after a moment. _Alone, and with only those gauntlets for fine-scale work, this would have taken him solar cycles!_

As it was, even her delicate claws were finding the work difficult in spots. Not to mention painful, as her right fingers still refused to cooperate to their fullest.

Shortening the _sor_ alone took her over a _groon_.

Granted, it didn't help her concentration that every time she hit a snag-her protesting right hand had once caused her to nick the inside of the _verta-skyn_-she found herself stopping to cock one audio-receptor fearfully, expecting to hear the old medic's thundering voice over her shoulder.

But, to her continued amazement and eventual comfort, Ratchet remained quiet, focused and seemingly absorbed by the technicalities of his own task.

As she relaxed, losing herself in the task, her modifications came more quickly, with more confidence.

Three peaceful _groons_ passed without her acknowledgement.

In fact, it wasn't until she was adding a beveled edge to the joint's _sev_, that she even remembered he was in the room, hearing him push himself away from his station.

Looking up, Ratchet walked the length of the room to retrieve a tool, this time a Glion gun for welding at odd angles in tiny spaces; its high-temperature, focused flame the kind of tool only a medical maestro could use. She noted this with interest-she would have been forced to try to make modifications with her frame welder, for all the good it would have done-before realizing that in walking the entire length, he never once looked in her direction.

In fact, she would have believed he pointedly refrained from looking at her.

Brow-ridges furrowing in contemplation, the femme frowned and turned her optics back to her own work, though she made no move to continue. In fact, for several silent cycles, she did naught but stare at her claws, her processor churning as she tried to comprehend Ratchet's seemingly incongruous logic.

_Why would he ignore me?_ True he had done so for most of her tenure in Iacon, but never with such seeming intent.

And then it struck her.

_He is trying to be respectful… admittedly too hard in his typical unsubtle way..._

But that made his actions all the more unnerving.

For _orns_ she had done everything in her power to earn Ratchet's respect, hoping that he would give her the credit her training deserved, and allow her to do her job without criticism or condescension; to be treated as an equal or, at the very least, not a servant-class Cybertronian. To actually fulfill his mandate as a mentor and educational partner. She had thought he had made steps in this regard only yesterday, the slightest nod of credibility to well-reasoned action, only to see it explode like so much energon in the face of her façade.

But for him to force a delay of the impending argument-ostensibly because time was working against their ability to help a 'Bot in distress-while at the same time exhibiting uncharacteristic congenial behavior made her suspicious.

Try as her Decepticon-trained mind might think, she couldn't understand what possible edge that these actions could benefit him.

Which left only the possibility that he actually realized he had been an aft and was trying to make amends for his part.

It was the kind of thing only a sheltered, passive-aggressive, middle-Golden Age 'Bot could have attempted, and the femme allowed a sly smile to play across her lips.

Turning her head, she intercepted Ratchet and presented the pivot-joint to him. Pointing at the plasma inducer, a small, rectangular depression between the medial and ventral power nodes, she indicated the scoring scars produced by the _Torin_ wrenchas she reshaped the connection manifold.

"As heat stress and carbon-scoring were an expected result of adjusting the connection manifold, how would you suggest I address the consequent signal loss across the relays for the main power channel?"

The seasoned medic considered the problem. "Well _paraxial_ reduction would be the best choice as it minimizes the chance for secondary relay damage that _Torin_-sanding often causes."

It was a matter-of-fact response, and as soon as the words left his lips, he turned to continue his task.

And then he stopped.

Io's question was something that a base medical trainee would have asked during their first year practicals. Which made it all the more curious that someone with her advanced skills-for only an excellent technician could have even attempted the job that resulted in the problem-would even deign to ask.

Ratchet turned to regard her with a wide-opticed expression, processors whirring, mouth partially askance. Tactless though he might have been, he quickly recognized the significance of her gesture. Just as he had been attempting to diffuse the situation earlier by giving her some leeway as she worked, she had made a conscious effort to include him in her work by asking him a question that he knew she already knew the answer to.

As if to underscore his thoughts, Io had already returned to her work, incorporating Ratchet's suggestions with the practiced hand that emphasized her experience and confidence.

The red-and-white mech couldn't help but smile. He knew that he would still have to explain himself to her, as he was positive that she wouldn't allow him to smooth-talk his way out of another confrontation. But Io's simple, courteous action relieved the apprehension in his spark by several orders of magnitude.

_She's willing to meet me part way_, he thought.

Still smiling, the medic averted his gaze and returned to his task, Glion gun in hand.

As he sat down, he removed the gauntlet on his right hand, withdrew his welder, and augmented the implement, basically a transformation within a transformation, changing the shape of the apparatus so that the Glion gun could attach itself firmly to its dorsal surface. The pain that accompanied the connection-caused as the tool tapped into his welder's energon line, as well as his neural-net-was expected, and Ratchet shrugged it off as he had the thousands of other times he had used it and other ex-mods.

Once the connection was firmly established, he began to work.

The Glion gun was, at its core, a specialized welder. However, if wielded properly, it could also be used to construct _lantheron_ nets, cross-banded bundles of superconducting wire that were used to augment the neural-nets of 'Bots relegated to the telecommunications caste.

Reaching toward a large, metal tin, Ratchet retrieved several bundles of cable, all of which had been pre-cut to specified lengths. Using the prongs on his left gauntlet, he undid the bundles, and began laying them out, starting first with the longest pieces. Atop these, the next longest, laid at a 43.25 degree angle relative to the cables below, formed the second layer.

With a thought, he activated the device, and subconsciously adjusted the regulators so as to change the size and shape of the flame, creating what looked to be a burning, ultraviolet needle. Then, with utmost care, he began crafting each junction, gently brushing the active node with the tip of the flame to first weld the wire, then further restricting the energon stream to a width of 30 microns so he could shape the metal of the junction into the form of a tapered ellipse.

It was a slow tedious process to get each node to the proper dimensions. True, the _filiar_ lens that covered his right optic magnified the connection and projected a schematic overlay that greatly assisted with their standardization, but it was like trying to find and manipulate one dropped bolt in an assembly plant… in the dark.

Finishing the first of several hundred nodes, he moved on to the second. As he started shaping this one, he got the distinct feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder.

Smiling, the medic addressed Io in a bemused tone. "Yes?"

Io started; she hadn't expected him to acknowledge her presence, especially since using a Glion gun was supposedly so difficult so as to utilize all of one's concentration. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to…"

"Bother me?" Ratchet replied, finishing her sentence. Moving on to the next node, the medic continued. "You haven't."

At this, a relieved smile danced across the femme's lips. Stepping lightly on her trods, her curiosity budding, she moved so that she could better observe the seasoned medic as he labored.

"Have you finished your modifications?" Ratchet asked, his tone of voice seemingly neutral.

"Of course." She replied.

"Set it over there if you wouldn't mind." He indicated an open spot on the table with his free hand.

Io set the part down gently, not wanting to make any noise that might otherwise distract him. As she recalled her claws, Ratchet considered the pivot-joint out of the corner of his optic. It was only a quick sideways glance, less than an astrosecond.

Ratchet's optics brightened.

Io had done an amazing job, that much was certain. Far better than he ever would have thought possible, seeing as she was still recovering from her injuries. Yet, as much as he wanted to praise her, something in his spark told him that doing so might actually upset the tenuous peace that he had managed to forge.

_No need to rush_, he thought, and finishing the first row of microscopic welds, he started on the next.

Still sensing her continued presence, and also, curiosity, he added. "Have you ever used a Glion gun?"

Io raised a skeptical brow ridge, wondering where he was going with this. "No," she said with a slight shake of her head. "I've only read about them."

Ratchet nodded. "Take a seat," he said indicating the unclaimed portion of his bench with a shrug of his right shoulder-cap.

Optics widening, she stared at him for several astroseconds in disbelief. Subconsciously, she even checked her audio receptors to make sure they were functioning properly. Then, still unsure of where things were going, she slowly sat down, partially transforming her wings, folding them back and behind so that she could sit next to her charge without constantly bumping him with her winglets.

Finishing the node that he was currently working on, he straightened his posture, and turned his head so that he could look at her directly. Lifting his right bracer, he removed the gun and handed it to her so that she could examine it more closely. As she turned the implement in her claws, her optics flickered with curiosity, so much so that Ratchet couldn't help but smile.

He had been the same way when his field-mentor, the infamous field-surgeon Relay, had first introduced him to the device, yet rather than have him learn the peculiarities of the implement a little at a time over the course of several _vorns_, as was the minimum amount of time necessary to even proclaim a modicum of proficiency with it, Relay goaded him into using it that first day. Unable to control the flame, Ratchet nearly burnt down his mentor's lab.

Something that the crotchety, old 'Bot found funny at the time, for reasons that escaped Ratchet's sensibilities.

Seeing as Io was still recovering from her wounds, asking her to don such a potentially energon demanding device was a risky endeavor, and as such, he merely allowed her to examine it to her spark's content.

Once her curiosity was satisfied, she handed the gun back to Ratchet, and though she said nothing, a pleasant smile danced across her lips.

Reattaching it, his neural net subconsciously adjusted to the device's whims, and he turned and considered his work. "Once you've recovered completely, I'll teach you how to use it." He adjusted the regulators and began shaping the next node.

"Really?" Io wondered. "You'll teach me?"

Ratchet nodded. "Of course…" he paused and a sly smirk began to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Seeing as you 'haven't learned anything from me since you arrived here,' I figure I should really get on that."

Io's optics widened. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but for some reason, even though the words he had spoken were hers, she couldn't find her voice.

"But…" He started, and then he sighed, the smile disappearing in a flash. An emotion flickered briefly across his optics, and though it only amounted to a slight pause, the flame at the end of the Glion gun intensified briefly, bathing his face in deep ultraviolet, accentuating his optical recesses and style lines in a way that made him look forlorn, regretful even.

He considered her then, searching her face as if sizing her up and she reacted with mild indignation. Seeing this, he nodded as if expecting nothing less. And his mouth opened a second time.

"I… suppose now is a good a time as any to address the issues that lie between us, and…"

Again the indignation.

"I'll begin by saying that I owe you a bit of an explanation." The mech's voice faltered and his optics dimmed sadly. "My actions these past few _orns_ have been…"He paused as he considered a tactful means of conveying his statement.

But Io's sultry voice was quick to bridge the verbal gap, a bit of her typical attitude returning. "Boorish; uncouth; non-Cybertronian; barbaric…the list is endless, really."

The old medic shook his head and sighed with a sad smile. He couldn't tell whether she was being angry or her usual sarcastic self, suited to take the wind out of a 'Bot to diffuse tension, but regardless, deep at spark, he knew that she was at least partially right. "I won't deny that I was harsh on you…but for good reason."

Io crossed her arms and looked at her charge out the corner of her optic, disbelief plain on her face-plate. "I'm all audio-receptors, doctor."

Suppressing yet another sigh, Ratchet deactivated the gun; he didn't trust his processors to be able to handle both the implement and the spirited journey through the emotional sea he now had to traverse. Lowering his head, he adjusted his arms so that they were resting comfortably across his femoral plates.

"Shields, by their very design, are expected to lay down their lives for their charges should the need arise."

Io nodded without hesitation. "Of course."

"And, likewise, field-mentors have a duty to their shields, to provide them with the discipline and training that they require to be successful both in the field and in the clinic."

Io turned her head and considered Ratchet's face, her brow ridges furrowed as he tried to predict the purpose of his monologue.

"You are not my first shield, though it took a while for my COs, first Tecate and then Crossarm, to deign to allow me another shield after I contributed to the demise of my last one."

At this, Io cocked her head quizzically. "You mean your shield died defending you?"

Ratchet shook his head and closed his optics. "No, you heard me right the first time."

The former 'Con could only stare at her charge in puzzlement for several quiet astroseconds. "Are you trying to tell me that _you_ killed your last shield?"

Ratchet's shoulder caps sagged, and when he opened his optics, the pain that he felt in his spark was very much evident. "Not directly, no…but as his mentor, I was just as culpable for his actions as he was and therefore, one could argue I was…complicit in his termination."

Io's expression softened, and she felt her spark tighten almost as if she knew exactly where he was going with his story.

And, if it ended the way that she thought it might…

Shaking her head to squash that line of reasoning, wanting to give her mentor the benefit of the doubt, she leaned forward and touched his bracer.

At her touch, Ratchet raised his head and was surprised to see compassion in her normally focused cobalt stare.

And, surprisingly enough, this small gesture of comfort was enough to spur him forward.

"Gamma was an inexperienced 'Bot, and not just regarding his medical know-how. He was a rookie, only having joined the Autobot forces a month before he was assigned to me as a shield.

"If not for the fallout after the Praxian Stalemate, his training would have been more thorough. But, as it was, with Megatron attacking neutral settlements, they needed as many medics in the field as they possibly could, so his training ended prematurely, and he was assigned to me." He paused and averted his optics. "I was a bit of a rookie as well, having only just been promoted to the position of field-medic."

He shook his head sardonically. "What did I really know about training a shield? All I had as a guide was my field-mentor's way of teaching. And if you thought what I put you through was harsh, Relay's methodology was a lot more brutal."

"I find that hard to believe," She replied skeptically. "But continue…"

Ratchet's optics narrowed slightly at her tone, though he continued with his story as if unperturbed. "I vowed that _I_ wouldn't treat my shields that way; that _I_ would do what I could to make the experience _enjoyable_." His voice faded, and he met Io's intense stare. "I erred critically. I was too soft in my methods…and Gamma, not having discipline enough to listen to my orders, perished on his first field excursion."

Ratchet closed his eyes, and lowered his head; the last echoes of his voice lingering on for several moments, bouncing here and there amid the vast, silent clutter.

Io considered her mentor through pinched optics; her spark tightening as she heard the underlying pain in Ratchet's words. And, after a moment, she averted her eyes, her processors churning unpleasantly.

_On the first mission?!_ Io could hardly believe what she was hearing.

Losing a shield was no trivial matter amongst the Autobots. While the process of naming shields was arguably a recent addition to the war, it was a great source of pride. Consider: in a culture that had all but made impossible upward mobility amongst the rigidly defended caste system-one of the very sore spots that ostensibly led to the war in the first place-naming a shield allowed an Autobot to become something different, something greater than whatever they were created for. And, it gave the charge educational authority, which they had almost universally not previously enjoyed, raising their standing in society. It was a teacher-student bond that benefited both parties, and, more importantly, as they served in a front-line capacity, defending the freedom of every other Autobot and guarding the very core of their beleaguered society, they were like ideological poster-children, the living embodiment of everything this war was about.

_On the first mission?!_ She repeated uncomprehendingly.

Though it was clear that Ratchet had not been penalized for his lapse of judgment-as there were no formal laws regulating a shield's training-he would have undoubtedly suffered some sort of social ostracism after Gamma's death for not fulfilling his end of the mentor-shield bargain. Literally being treated as inadequate because he couldn't do something as simple as educate his shield enough to keep him from placing himself in danger.

_And if I understand Ratchet, how he internalizes everything, any ostracism he felt would be nothing compared to the internal flagellation he undoubtedly set for himself._

And not only that, but the pain of losing someone he cared for as a friend must have been just as terrible.

_No wonder he has been an aft to me. He is trying to make up in me for what he believes caused him to fail with Gamma!_

She paused, horror-struck and happy at the same time.

_Which means he must have feelings for me!_

Of course, she would have died rather than give voice or facial expression to this, so she dove back into the conversation.

"How long has it been?" Io asked softly.

"Almost fifty stellar cycles, now."

Io nodded. "It's funny how they always say that 'time is the best medicine.'" She chuckled mirthlessly and shook her head. "It never worked with me."

"What could you possibly mean by that?" Ratchet wondered with a sarcastic chuckle. "You're far too young to have ever had a shield of your own…" His voice trailed off and his eyes widened as he realized that, though he had intended his comment to be an easily overlooked jape, it could very well have been interpreted as condescension.

Io's darkening expression replete with pursed lips seemed to underscore this.

However, she soon shrugged off the emotion, dismissing it with a wave of her clawed hand. "While that may be true," She admitted. "I spent a considerable amount of my existence as a Decepticon." Meeting his optics with her own fierce stare, she added in a cold monotone. "I know what it's like to feel regret."

At this, she lowered her head, and frowned. "What I've seen…and what I've done…" She shook her head, and wrapped her arms around her waist in a strangely protective gesture. The femme said nothing for a moment; her optics dark and unfocused. "Well…you probably know all about _that_." She huffed bitterly. "No doubt Crossarm gave you a copy of my file."

Her voice faded and she closed her eyes, turning her head away as if ashamed to look at the mech.

Ratchet considered her with a thoughtful optic. "Yes, Crossarm did give me your file." He replied after a cycle.

The femme tensed but didn't look his way.

"Though, I never read it."

Io's left audio-receptor cocked back in surprise, her head following suit soon after, optics wide. "Y-you never…" Her voice dropped off and she seemed to ponder this for a moment, but all she could respond with was open-mouthed startlement. "Why?"

"Because 'everyone deserves a chance at redemption.'" He replied quoting the Prime. "Optimus believes it…and so do I, for reasons that you now know…" The red-and-white medic lowered his head and flared his shoulder-caps briefly before allowing them to settle back against his chassis as if trying to physically dislodge whatever lingering feelings of regret remained about his person.

Subconsciously, Io found herself doing the same with her own nacelles.

Who would have thought that the two of them, as distant as they might be in both medical expertise and age, would find solace in the fact that they both harbored deep-seated feelings of remorse over events in their pasts?

For a time, the lab was silent save for the light hum of idling machinery.

Ratchet was the first to break saturninity. "I'm sorry for pushing you as far as I did."

Io turned once again to consider him. As was the norm, his face was a blank, steel mask, though his eyes seemed to exude empathy. "When you were assigned to me, I swore that I would do everything in my power to make sure you didn't meet Gamma's fate. That you would have the discipline and resolve necessary to be competent in your duties."He paused and lowered his head. "Yesterday, you performed exactly as I had envisioned…but at the cost of your own well-being."

The femme looked stunned, then, as if realizing for the first time that she had, indeed, been in error. Lowering her optics, she scuffed at the floor with the tip of her trod. "I didn't want you to think I was weak…"

"And so you hid your injury from me, nearly leaking to death in the process." He raised his head and fixed her with a stern glare. "That sort of recklessness could get you killed. And…" His voice trailed off and his optics flickered, briefly, with emotion. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, crestfallen. "I…can't lose you." He shook his head, sadly. "Not like that. Not again"

"Ratchet…" Io said softly, her countenance softening, a smile dancing across her lips. A series of emotions surged through her spark and she felt as though her processors might overload as they attempted to sort them. Firstly, she couldn't help but feel awash with sympathy at the old medic's pain, realizing just the kind of internal and external trauma such an event would caused to his emotional state. But more importantly, the extreme force of will he must have commanded in order to tell her. She also couldn't help but replay her own regrets, his confession bringing her past to conscious memory, leaving her feeling sad and hollow, but strangely satisfied that some soul out there might actually empathize with her. And, as if that wasn't enough, her thoughts had to contend with the surprise and pleasure at realizing he had let her keep her secrets, the subtle fear at knowing she would have to reciprocate and divulge them to him at some point, the feelings that she was needed, and the hints that their working relationship may be more than professional…

The old medic must have gone through a similar emotional vortex, because, after a moment, Ratchet blinked suddenly as if snapping out of a trance. Casting a hurried look in her direction, as if too embarrassed to make optic contact for any length of time, he said. "I think that's a good stopping point for today."

Shocked by the sudden transition, Io snapped back to reality.

"But…" She protested.

" I don't want you to overdo it; you're still recovering from your injuries, after all." Fixing her with a stern, business-like, yet compassionate stare, the medic continued. "I would like you to head back to your quarters and get at least twelve _groons_ of uninterrupted rest."

"Hrumph," She snorted crossing her arms over her chest, but, at his poor attempts to regain an air of authority, of mentor-shield relations, she couldn't help but smirk. "You're no fun."

Ratchet chuckled. "Perhaps. But then again, I can't remember anyone ever claiming otherwise."

Io goggled and then laughed heartily.

As if to underscore his point, he indicated the _lantheron_ net spread out before him. "But in all honesty," and this time he did sound his old self. "I will not need your assistance for a while. This will take me at least until then to complete, and as fascinating as Glion guns are, you would likely get bored watching me work for that long."

And then, he smiled up at her. "Get some rest. You've deserved it."

Io returned the expression and rose to her trods.

Ratchet picked up the Glion gun, reattached it, and reached for another cable.

But Io wasn't finished. Fixing him with one of her sly smirks, she crossed her arms and said almost playfully. "I bet it took every ounce of will power in your spark to finally admit that."

He looked up from his work long enough to smirk back at her. "Let's not get uppity, now."

Her smirk broadened. "Good night, Ratchet." Turning, she made her way to the door and exited without another word.

The old medic followed her with his optics, smiling to himself as a warm feeling of accomplishment flooded his spark. Then, feeling much better about life in general, he returned to his task, crafting nodes with his trusty Glion gun.


	9. Chapter 8: Tangent

Thanks, again, for the support everyone! I really appreciate it.

This chapter is going to throw a neat little twist at you, hopefully you all will like where this is going. I know I did as I was writing it!

* * *

"So, what happened next?" Miko asked, excitedly. The young human had long since abandoned her cross-legged sitting position in favor of a seemingly more comfortable one, lying on her belly with her hands supporting the weight of her head; her booted feet lightly treading the air behind her back. "Did you start dating right away or did you wait for a while?"

The enjoyable parade of memory data wrought from his recollections stalled, and Ratchet's head snapped up in startlement at the suddenness of Miko's question. Surprised and unprepared, his processor laboring mightily as it took in all of the comparatively sterile details of their base, a resentful scowl briefly darkened the old medic's face-plate.

This was the third time Miko had derailed his story-to say nothing of his train of thought.

By all rights, Ratchet should be angry. It was Miko, after all, that had goaded him into divulging Io's story under the guise of good-natured, human "fun." If she wanted the information so badly, why in the name of Primus did she insist on interrupting him?

It was completely and utterly irrational.

And yet…

He paused and considered the young human with a thoughtful optic.

As much as he hated to admit it, each of Miko's abeyances had actually forced Ratchet to consider portions of the story that he might have glossed over or, otherwise, left out. It was easy, after all, to misplace snippets of data in such a lengthy narrative…even for a great orator as he and many older models claimed to be.

Her tangents also kept the mech "on his game," as the humans would say.

"It depends on what you mean by 'a while,'" Ratchet replied in a lecturing tone typical of his usual mannerisms. "Cybertronian life-cycles are quite lengthy compared to your own…"

"Like, how long are we talking?" She interjected, with a smirk.

Ratchet sighed and shook his head.

Ever since the humans came under their protection, Miko had done everything in her power to ferret-out Ratchet's age, directly—an inquiry that he ardently refused to answer—or indirectly from the other Autobots—an exercise in futility seeing as none of them had been made privy to that information.

Optimus knew, but the two of them had been friends for eons. And he _certainly_ wouldn't indulge her in her childish antics.

Lips turning in a smirk, the old medic responded with a sly "Long enough."

Miko's shoulders slumped a bit in disappointment, but she still stared up at him with an expectantly smug smile, content in the knowledge that he had already consented to answer her original set of questions.

_How can such a tiny creature be so manipulative?_ Ratchet couldn't help but wonder. _Are all femmes like this or am I just blessed with another prodigy like Io?_

"Our longer life cycles," the medic continued with a suppressed grimace. "…give us a unique view of time, and this view, this understanding—if you will—dictates the manner with which we live our lives, or view our accomplishments."

The human considered his response for a moment. "So…you have some freaky sort of insight into love and existence and junk, just because you're really, really old?"

Ratchet's lips pursed, slightly in annoyance. "As tactless as your assessment might be…yes; we do."

"But, what kind of insight?"

Ratchet had anticipated her cluelessness, and opened his mouth to answer her question when Rafael's voice sounded, effectively beating him to the energon. "Think about it, Miko." As he spoke, he adjusted his glasses, a strangely endearing habit of his that caused the old medic to smile. "Why do we only go to school for 16 years or so?"

"So our parents can torture us," She replied smartly, without missing a beat.

"Seriously, Miko?" Jack chuckled under his breath.

"I don't know…" She replied after a moment, her shoulders shrugging irritably. "Because we're faster at learning…"

"Are we?" Jack cocked an eyebrow in her direction, but she ignored him.

"And…" Raf drawled, leaning forward, his hands gesturing in a way that made it seem as though he were trying to coax the answer out of her head.

"'And'…I don't know," She admitted, seemingly annoyed with herself more than with Rafael. "I'm sorry, but I'm not a super, braniac-nerd-type like you."

Raf smiled and then blushed, as was his custom, even for roundabout, backhanded praise.

Seeing this, Jack turned his dark eyes on Miko and asked, "Do we live forever?"

"Well, no…"

"So, we can't attend school for thousands of years because we don't live that long? Right?" He pressed.

Miko's brows scrunched in confusion as she processed Jack's reply.

Then…

"Oh, I get it!" She exclaimed, her expression rapturous. Clapping her hands excitedly, she turned her gaze back to Ratchet. "You guys take things slow, right? No rushing stuff?"

The medic nodded his head. "That's correct."

"Does that include relationships?"

"Generally, yes." Ratchet replied, softly; his optics distant. "However, war has a way of changing things…" His voice faltered a bit as a few, painful strands of memory data flitted through his processor.

They were expected, to be sure; but just because they were expected didn't mean that such feelings were easy to contend with.

Subconsciously, the old medic lowered his head and he allowed yet another sigh to flutter across his lips.

"You waited, but not as long as you would have given normal circumstances."

Ratchet's head snapped up at the sound of Rafael's voice, and he couldn't help but blink in startlement; he had been expecting Miko to respond, after all.

After a moment, the old medic smiled, softly; his optics shimmering with emotion as he considered the young boy.

Before the humans came into their lives, it wasn't uncommon for Ratchet to work on a project, uninterrupted by the others, for several days. And, with all of the energon scouting that was necessary to survive on this world, he frequently found himself alone at the base, tasked with all of the background duties necessary to keep their lives as comfortable as possible with naught but human technology—literally millions of years more primitive than what he had enjoyed on Cybertron—to keep him company.

Solitude and silence meant productivity.

But now…

The base was… busy.

And, though he was loathe to admit it, he had come to find busy to be…good.

Even weekends…

No, Ratchet had truly come to care for the humans as their nuances had added something to his existence that before had been lacking—Rafael especially.

Relay would have called it youthful 'pep.'

Ratchet chuckled internally as he looked at the diminutive, human child.

It wasn't just his expertise with human technology that tugged the old medic's spark-casing, but the fact that the young human reminded Ratchet so much of himself when he was young.

Intelligent, confident in his technological prowess…while at the same time introverted and insecure.

Yes, they were very similar.

So much so that they had developed a unique bond with one another; something akin to what a Former might feel toward their own sparkling.

And their skills complemented each other, allowing them to work together for hours, whether fixing the bugs and viruses that seemed to plague the silo's computers, or doing mundane tasks such as monitoring the safety systems on their energon tanks.

As it seemed, Rafael was the only member of Team Prime, other than Optimus, who truly understood him.

And for that, the medic was silently grateful.

Whether Rafael perceived Ratchet's thought processes, or not, he gave no sign, just considered the old medic intently though his red-rimmed spectacles as he awaited additional revelations, but Ratchet was sure the boy could ascertain his general mood.

As if to underscore Ratchet's thoughts, Rafael's smile broadened, and his eyes-as was the norm whenever their gazes met-seemed to exude empathy.

As he considered how just how much Rafael and the others had come to mean to him, his chest tightened, spurred by a series of morbid thoughts that his detail-oriented processor couldn't help but fixate upon.

One of his greatest fears was the loss of their human companions—ranked up there, now, just about equally with the loss of one of their own. Even Special Agent Fowler—as pretentious and irritating as Ratchet sometimes found the human to be—had proven to be a valuable asset to their cause, and as such held a special place in Ratchet's spark.

And the thought of losing one of them…was almost too painful to think about.

Almost as painful as having to think about Io…

At the thought of his former partner, pain lashed at his spark.

Actual, physical pain, and it took every ounce of self-control the old medic could muster to keep his face-plate emotionless, to keep his body from doubling over.

"Ratchet?" Rafael asked, softly. The medic could hear concern in his voice, and his olfactory sensors detected a chemical pheromone that he had come to associate with fear or stress in humans.

But only emanating from Rafael; the other humans hadn't noticed anything unusual in the few moments that had elapsed since his last statement.

_Guess I can't hide anything from him_, Ratchet thought with an internal, ironic chuckle. Meeting the young human's brown stare, he allowed a soft smile to play across his lips. "I'm fine, Rafael," He admitted and then hesitated for less than a second, his processor whirring as he considered just what he would say to assuage the child's fears. "I was just…collecting my thoughts."

The spiky-haired youth nodded his acceptance, though he seemed skeptical.

The old medic sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. He hated lying to Rafael, but it would have been...difficult, not to mention time consuming, to explain the nature of his affliction. Literally a story within a story, something that he just wasn't in the mood for, especially when he had yet to finish the first one.

"Anyway…" Ratchet began with a subtle roll of his shoulder-caps. "Io and I were colleagues for the equivalent of two Earth years. And in that time our relationship… evolved." At this, a tiny smile crept across his lips. "Sure, she was still my shield-and I her field mentor-but…the nature of our interactions began to change, mostly as a byproduct of the sheer amount of time we spent in each other's presence." Still smiling, the medic's optics grew distant. "As it would turn out, she was a faster learner than I ever could have anticipated. And what she lacked in experience, she more than made up for in insight and ingenuity." His smile broadened. "She was inquisitive as well, and these combined traits made for some interesting…dialogues between the two of us."

Miko cocked an eyebrow, seemingly intrigued by the medic's tone. "'Dialogues?' Sounds like you mean 'arguments.'"

"No, no, no; not arguments." Ratchet clarified with a slight shake of his helm. "Arguments imply hurt feelings, and though there we were often quite vocal, we were never truly angry with one another. In fact…" The medic's optics brightened. "We grew to enjoy the interchanges."

"Hmmf…" Miko snorted, her thin lips drawn into a sly smirk. "Only Ratchet would actually enjoy arguing with somebody,"

"Really?" Jack cocked an eyebrow and his face was bemused. "You seem to enjoy arguing with everyone."

"_You're_ not helping," Miko growled, and threw a pillow at him.

Where the pillow had come from, Ratchet had no idea. He still didn't know where they had obtained the the couch-let alone figured out how they had managed to get the cumbersome item into the base without him seeing-but he had stopped questioning their behavior long ago.

"BwwwwrrriiiWweetVVVrree?" Bumblebee wondered.

Ratchet considered the scout's question for a moment, his hand moving to stroke his chin-plate. "That's a good question," he mused thoughtfully. "Looking back on it now, we undoubtedly found solace in the fact that we'd both finally found somebody that we could argue with, academically."

"Wwwwerrrt?"

"Well, consider: Io started off as a medic for the Decepticons. She performed her duties, and that was that; there was little intellectual stimulation."

"Didn't want their medics to think for themselves, did they?" Arcee commented darkly.

"No," Ratchet agreed, his voice unusually somber. "They didn't."

The humans exchanged looks of confusion, thought they didn't question Ratchet's tone-he had been hoping that they wouldn't. Io's history was dark enough, and having to explain the details of her medical "duties" to the humans would have been…unpleasant, at the very least.

"So, what did you argue about?" Rafael wondered, changing topics almost as if he could sense the general disquiet in Ratchet's spark.

"Anything and everything. We argued about proper treatments for injured 'Bots-mine from years of training and hers from intuition-everything from cauterizing wounds, to replacing energon lines, to manipulating power couplings for enhanced performance, and even possible augmentations to make field 'Bots more stealthy."

Miko seemed to be drifting off as if this was not what she had been hoping to hear. But that didn't faze him at this point, not with sudden flood of good memories and Rafael's absorptive face.

"One-I guess, you would call it 'epic'-interchange involved us debating the drawbacks to using Scanner's soldering technique for patching protoform-mesh lacerations. It was a rational battlefield implementation, perfect for quick fixes to minimize energon loss from the secondary, sub-mesh lines that were too small to sew in the field…"

Miko's eyes glazed over even more.

"Io advocated eschewing it…"

"She wanted to use a shoe?" Miko, of course.

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose-plate with his fingers. It was all the more he could do to prevent himself from laughing out loud. "No, Miko…" He managed, after a moment. "_Eschew_…" he repeated.

But Miko only looked at him as if he was the one who was crazy.

"Do you even go to school?" Jack asked. "Or is all your time spent escaping detention?"

She stuck out her tongue at him and threatened another pillow.

"It means…" Ratchet began, and then stopped. He put his hand over his optics. "She wanted to cease using the technique as she felt that it did more harm than good."

"Oh! Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" She replied with a dismissive wave of her hand, dropping the pillow.

"But, I…" _What's the use?_ Ratchet thought suddenly, and sighed. "Never mind."

"So, what happened?" Rafael asked, excitedly.

"Well, after several minutes of debate, followed by a few, choice words, it was clear that she was angry, and didn't want to hear any more pontificating from, and I quote, 'an old 'Bot who had his head so far up his tail-pipe that he had missed several centuries worth of _terrin_ advancements.'"

For reasons that he didn't understand, this set everybody laughing. Perhaps they all thought it odd that he would be so carefully circumspect about his dialogue, in a sense making sure they knew whose words were being spoken.

That, or they found it amusing to see him in such rare form, using colloquial dialogue choices instead of the tech-speak that he was more known for.

Regardless of their motives, Ratchet continued. "She threw a spanner at me, and, as she was notoriously difficult to deal with once the tools started flying, I stormed out of the lab…only to find myself in the company of no fewer than twenty of my colleagues."

He chuckled. His listeners goggled.

"I guess they all assumed that we were going to kill each other. In moments, of course, the masses scattered. They never wanted to hang around, but Interlink always managed to give me a parting, knowing smile."

Everyone laughed, even Ratchet.

"Which didn't help matters when I realized later that Io was probably right."

Everyone laughed again, giving him sympathetic _but knowing_ smiles, Arcee especially.

"Granted," The medic continued with a smirk, "I _did_ get her back the next time she took an oil bath."

Silence.

The silo became so quiet that you could have heard a feather hit the ground.

"_You did what_?!"Arcee blurted out

Ratchet's face-plate blanched as he realized what he had said. "I…" He began, though his voice immediately faltered, and his optics darted about nervously as he thought about just how he was going to talk his way out of this, especially with Miko being present.

As if to underscore his thoughts, Miko chimed in. "Dude, the shower is, like, out-of bounds."

"Indeed," Arcee concurred.

"Oh, _puh-leze_." Ratchet snapped at her tone, a bit of his typical attitude returning. "How could you even think that I would stoop so low as to do something inappropriate?"

The two-wheeler had no answer to this, and merely shrugged her shoulders resentfully.

At this Bulkhead sniggered. "So, if it wasn't 'inappropriate'…what was it?"

Ratchet's optics widened as everyone burdened him with their collective gazes. Even Arcee, though she merely considered the old medic out of the corner of one pinched optic.

For several moments he was so dumbfounded that his voice-box remained silent.

He had not intended to reveal this information.

It wasn't that the content was too mature for them to handle; on the contrary: Ratchet was and always would be a gentle-bot, even when it came to pranks. Rather, it was just that, a harmless prank. A single event; and not in any way shape or form crucial to the telling of his story.

They didn't need to know that he had spent _orns_ tinkering with various chemical combinations so as to create a batch of oil that, upon physical inspection, looked and felt like regular bath oil…but had the wonderful side-effect of dying the bather's mesh pink.

Nor did they really need to know that in Io's haste to kill Ratchet afterwards, she had forgotten to empty the cistern that she had been using. And, as it was custom for bath users to refill their cisterns with a clean batch of oil after each use, anyone using the bath after her would have assumed that everything was in order; that the oil was fresh, and that it certainly wouldn't dye them pink.

They also really didn't need to know that the first poor soul to discover this was none other than Crossarm himself.

Ratchet chuckled internally as he remembered the Sergeant's frantic com-link message-a communication venue that he generally ignored in favor of visual transmissions-and Io's delight at the thought of a pink Crossarm.

And as much as the glider might have hated Ratchet, he at least recognized the medic's engineering expertise, and practically begged him to create some sort of remedy-while at the same time reminding Ratchet of the clinic's confidentiality clause.

Another internal chuckle.

The humans and their guardians were better off not knowing that Ratchet-even though he made good on his promise to create an antidote for Crossarm-violated the confidentiality clause when he hacked into the clinic's security database and compiled a single image of the salmon-colored Sergeant solely for Io's amusement.

A devious thing indeed, much more so than anything else he had ever done in his existence, but worth it.

Even _orns_ after the event, Ratchet found himself waking, and melting, to the sound of Io's laughter over his comlink as she spied the image in her quarters.

Yes, definitely worth it.

"Well?" Bulkhead pressed, snapping the medic out of his thoughts.

"Erm….nothing." He replied, quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You mean, you're not going to tell us?" Miko practically demanded.

"That's correct." Ratchet replied.

"But…"

"'But' nothing." The medic responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Haven't I divulged enough of my personal life, already?"

The human femme huffed something under her breath and turned her head sharply, clearly disappointed at having been shot down.

Something Ratchet was more than willing to do at this point, so long as it would get his story back on track.

"So," Rafael began, softly. "You said that you and Io were friends for two years, right?"

Ratchet raised his optics and considered the tiny human with a look of subtle questioning. Again, it was almost as if the boy could somehow read his thoughts. "Yes, that's right."

"Then…when did you two…" Rafael's face suddenly colored, and he glanced nervously at his human companions almost as if seeking approval or encouragement.

Miko's eyes immediately brightened. "It seems like Raf wants to know when you and Io finally hooked up?"

Ratchet's optics widened in alarm. In their society, the phrase "hooked up" was fairly...risque, so much so that he found himself temporarily silenced.

"When did you start dating?" Bulkhead translated.

"Oh!" Ratchet thought as a wave of relief flooded his spark.

"What did you think I meant?" Miko wondered.

"Moving on…" Ratchet insisted with a shake of his head. "It's difficult to put a date on it, but I guess you could say that we became a couple just after we were asked by Optimus to participate in a military operation that would come to be known as the _Orsis_ Incident."

"You were involved in that?" Bulkhead asked, a look of shock on his faceplate. Not the kind of shock that said millions had died in grotesque manners or that whole sectors of Cybertron had been blown into space, but a look that said it had conjured up some humorous tidbit at odds with the severity of the altercation.

Miko still stared at him, confused, but soon dismissed the entire situation with a shrug of her shoulders, and listened intently to the medic's next statement.

Ratchet's confusion, however, necessitated an inquiry.

"And just how do _you_ know about it? Other than those who participated, very few had been made privy to that information." He paused. "And, you were part of the Wreckers by that time, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Which is where I heard of it. Sort of."

Ratchet considered larger mech with a raised brow-ridge.

Bulkhead help up his hands defensively, as if he feared he had trod into water he had no business knowing about.

"Hey, don't get me wrong, I don't know anything about the mission," Bulkhead said quickly, and Ratchet relaxed. "Just that the day before, Maccadam's had the most legendary bar fight in its long and colorful history."

Ratchet practically tensed like a tightened j_or_-spring, but managed to keep his features passive. Bulkhead accepted it, and continued on with his story, perceiving nothing.

"Yeah," Bulkhead lounged back against the crate, his head rolling backwards as his eyes tilted up as if at a happy memory. "Old Sea Spray used to tell us the story of 'the night Maccadam's nearly fell down.' He'd always use that story on new recruits who just couldn't wait to get their hands in some Decepticon action. 'Spray would lean back, pull up a mug of energon and say 'The best fight I ever had was the night before _Orsis_. Got thrown through a window, clubbed nearly senseless with a chair, and stabbed in my right leg by a broken door handle.'"

Bulkhead smiled.

"Old Barnacle Butt and his stories. I don't think anyone in Iacon hadn't heard of 'the night,' but Spray claimed he was there, and, well, no one could exaggerate like he could. Heck, I mean, according to him, the entire brawl was started by two medi-bots. I mean, who could ever believe such…"

He paused and his head snapped up, fixing Ratchet with _that_ look.

"That wasn't you and Io was it?"

Ratchet could only put his head in his hands and sigh. _Why did I agree to this?_


	10. Chapter 9: Offer

A contented smile crept across Ratchet's lips as he studied the glowing, three-dimensional display that hovered above his console.

Granted one would assume that, for a medic of his caliber, for one who spent endless solar cycles pouring over technical data on screens such as this, bathing in its effulgent glow would be so familiar as to encourage feelings of solace, but this was special.

In fact, this was _so_ out of the ordinary that, more than giving simple succor-if one could believe Ratchet capable of such emotion-the luminescent images promoted elation.

The holo was a technical schematic of ground bridge #3.

His smile broadened slightly. He may not have been created to troubleshoot ground bridges, but in his optics, this was what he had been _made_ for.

Muttering softly to himself, his hand absently stroking his chin-plate, the medic considered the short message that had been sent along with the schematic.

According to the engineers, #3's magnetic field was only powering up to 80% capacity.

Given Ratchet's vast-and, some might say, illegal-knowledge of ground bridge technology, his first thought was that the bridge's primary fuel lines had been compromised.

His optics scanned the last few characters of the note.

The lines were intact and energon flow from the main line through S3 was optimal. In fact, the engineers went on to elaborate that they had thoroughly examined the central routing conduits and ionization relays, assuming that these, with their shorter life expectancies, would most likely have been the source of the power drain.

But, as with the main lines, these were functioning within normal parameters, leaving them very much at a loss.

Hence their decision to send all of their data to Ratchet in hopes that he-having built #3's generator himself-would stumble across something that they had missed.

"Hmmm…" With a few quick gestures, he magnified a portion of the schematic, and turned it 30 degrees so that he could better examine the all-important _veris_ converter, specifically the _polytoric_ cells responsible for the transmutation of liquid energon into a semi solid-state "magnetic" field that could effectively contain the ionized energon of the primary well.

Using his console he patched through to #3's diagnostic center, and pulled up operational efficiency data for each of the cells.

He blinked rapidly as he processed the numbers.

"All within normal operational limits…" He mused aloud. "Hmmm…"

If not the _polytoric_ cells, Ratchet was hard-pressed to think of anything else that would possibly cause the power drain.

It was a mystery.

A damned annoying mystery, and yet Ratchet's optics were alight with fierce pleasure.

He loved a good technical challenge, especially when it had to do with ground bridges.

Turning the image once again, he was just about to consider the thermal coil coupling when the door to the laboratory opened, effectively stalling his thoughts as he turned and wondered just who in their right mind would bother visiting him so late in the evening.

Io stepped quickly through the open door, her arms loaded with at least a dozen, variously-sized metal crates.

Immediately, Ratchet's confused expression became a bright smile as he watched his shield's silent entrance. Navigating across the lab took some skillful trodwork-considering the general clutter and the fact that Io couldn't possibly have seen where she was going over the top of her cargo-and the old medic couldn't help but smile wider.

Granted, he couldn't deny a sudden twinge of indignation at the fact that she hadn't noticed his presence, but, as it was due to her ability to intensely focus on any task-grand or mundane-he couldn't hold it against her.

Instead, he just watched as she set the boxes down on an empty berth and began sorting their contents into piles, unconsciously muttering to herself, as she did so.

It was these innocent moments, observed but unintruded, that Ratchet waited for.

In fact, all thoughts of fixing the ground bridge faded into the background as he contented to watch Io work, almost mesmerized. And concomitantly, his smile slowly transitioned from one of welcoming to a look his colleagues, had they seen it, would have called smitten.

Realizing at last what he was doing, he made to look away, but found himself either unable or unwilling.

And this wasn't the first time, either.

With what his higher functions might have once considered alarming frequency, he knew he was becoming ever more enamored by her actions-specifically the technical ones, as her tiny, clawed hands were so beautifully dexterous-and, he had to admit, to her unique mannerisms.

Which, much to his surprise-and, admittedly, delight-had become more evocative in recent _orns_, as if Io was becoming more than comfortable around her charge.

Comfortable enough, it would seem, to forge a true partnership.

At the thought, warm energon suffused the seasoned medic's face-plate.

_Such a thing would be wonderful…_

But the rumination only lasted a moment.

Ratchet shook his head as he always did when considering this, a frown twisting his features as he brutally suppressed the thought before his processor could finish it. The medic had never been one to daydream or indulge in such diversions of mind, especially when the likelihood of anything like it coming to fruition was incredibly remote.

And especially when said partnership was not in Io's best interest.

The seasoned medic suppressed a sigh.

As her mentor, Ratchet felt it just as much his duty to look out for her interests as it was to train her in medicine. And considering how ardently she pursued her discipline, Io was well on her way to making a name for herself, and as something more dignifying than a simple field-medic.

Before the war, Io was a budding scientist in Nova Cronum, her research centering around the improvement of medical energon formulas. Though her time as a Decepticon forced her into more mundane medical practices, she still enjoyed tinkering in her down-time. In fact, some of the energon formulas that she had developed under his supervision had passed clinical trials and were steadily working their way into Autobot hospitals all over Cybertron.

And all of this in just over two stellar cycles! Given unlimited resources and time, there was no telling what she might accomplish.

Ratchet's frown deepened.

Unfortunately, the Iacon Clinic and Triage Facility-despite being the largest of its kind on Cybertron-was just that, a clinic. Only a research academy could provide her with the resources and lab space that she would truly need to shine.

And once she was cleared from her remedial duties, she would have more than enough experience under her wings to run her own lab.

The old medic felt his spark tighten in his chest.

As much as he wanted her to be successful, he almost couldn't bear the thought of her absence.

He didn't want to see her go.

_And yet…what could I possibly offer her?_ He wondered dryly. Ratchet was, in all honesty, living out his dream here at the clinic. It was something that he had never believed could happen, especially considering his start as a lowly medical equipment technician. He had done the impossible, shirked his caste-assigned duties in favor of an occupation that he had actually chosen.

And as long as he got to do the occasional ground bridge technical support, all the better.

He was, as Io had often joked, "an old model, stuck in his ways."

But just as he was "stuck" in his position, he seemed annoyingly stuck about his feelings for Io.

A feather-light touch on the back of his right shoulder cap hewed his thoughts like an energon axe. Unprepared, the old medic jerked his arms upward in startlement. Doing so disrupted a small stack of data-disks that had been resting on the edge of his console. Cursing loudly, Ratchet scrabbled to prevent the disks from falling, but wasn't quite fast enough as two of them slipped from his grasp and clattered noisily against the metal floor.

Io laughed pleasantly behind him.

Turning his head, a flustered scowl darkening his face-plate, Ratchet considered the young jet through pinched optics. "You nearly gave me a spark attack," he huffed, setting the disks on the opposite side of his console, lest her antics cause him to drop them all a second time.

Then, as he began to wonder just how she had managed to sneak up on him, another, more horrifying, thought jumped the line for consideration, and it took all of his willpower to keep his countenance blank.

_How long has she been standing there? Or worse: how much did my face-plate give away?_

Io cocked her head and fixed her charge with a coy smile, one that seemed to suggest obliviousness. "I guess I'll have to try harder next time." Moving closer, adjusting her wings so that they folded neatly behind her, she claimed the unused portion of his bench and touched his bracer playfully. "So, what are you working on?"

Calming himself, considering her inquisitive nature, Ratchet forced-no, allowed-himself to smile and looked into her optics, lest his gaze linger on her hand. This wasn't the first time she had touched him, and yet he couldn't help but marvel at the fact that she cared about him enough to even consider doing so…and without hesitation, no less.

Again, the "partnership" thought crept back into his processor. And, just as before, his higher functions killed the thread. Io's touch, though it might make his spark flutter, was just that, a touch, and then only one of camaraderie, of compassion; it was foolish to look into it any more deeply than that.

With an internal sigh, the old medic focused his thoughts on answering her question. "Just a side project for the 'Bots in engineering."

"Interesting…" She mused, her clawed fingers tapping a rhythm that seemed to echo the thoughtful tone of her voice. She considered the hologram for a moment before poking at it with her index claw, minimizing the image so that she could study it in context. "These are ground bridge specs…" She marveled, looking up at him. "I figured your knowledge of ground bridge theory was limited to the basics, as it is with most medics." A sad smile flitted across her lips, she tightened her grip on his armor. "Why didn't you tell me you had an engineering background?"

Ratchet considered her curious countenance with a look of disbelief. "It…never came up in conversation." He replied, quickly averting his optics.

Despite all that had happened to her, Io was still an affiliate of the research caste, the highest tier within the more encompassing science caste. Engineering, even when centered around ground bridge repair and construction, was very near to the bottom. In fact, the only thing lower than ground bridge engineering was medical equipment repair, Ratchet's former line of work.

Despite the fact that the caste system had been all but abandoned because of the war, it was still difficult for most 'Bots, specifically those accustomed to elevated caste status, to treat those of the lower castes with anything other than disdain.

And it was equally difficult, for those of the lower caste, not to feel a de facto sense of "uncleanness" or at least reduced importance around their "betters."

Under Io's intimidating stare, Ratchet couldn't help but experience that involuntary self-debasement enforced by his many, many _vorns_ of existence.

"I wouldn't' have, you know." She insisted, softly, almost as if she could read his thoughts.

"I know…" Ratchet replied with a sigh.

Io smiled and squeezed his bracer once again.

Ratchet's spark fluttered pleasantly at the sensation, and a smile crept slowly back across his features. Then, in the euphoria of the moment, a thought struck him. "Why are you even here?" He wondered looking down at her. "I sent you back to your quarters eight _groons_ ago."

She nodded, tiredly. "I was on my way out when I ran into Interlink." She paused, and shook her head. "Poor guy. He had dock duty today with Triage."

Ratchet grimaced.

Dock duty was, by far, the most annoying aspect of his occupation. It normally fell to the HMO to catalog and distribute new inventory. Apparently Crossarm thought himself above such menial tasks, because he absolutely refused to do it, instead assigning his underlings to do the dirty work for him.

Of course, in addition to their normal duties.

"Just as the two of them began their shift, Triage was called into surgery."

Ratchet nodded. Triage was one of the most skilled spark surgeons in the city. His expertise in such a limited niche meant that he was often forced to abandon his normal, clinical duties for emergency surgeries or special training sessions. "And Interlink requested your assistance so that he wouldn't be stuck doing it himself."

"Exactly."

"That was decent of you to help him out. I think he hates dock duty more than me, and that's saying something."

She nodded. "Which is why I helped him. And…" A smile erupted across her face. "He's so tiny that it would have taken him at least four solar cycles, especially since his alt-mode is useless for hauling cargo."

Ratchet chuckled softly. Even with his back-plate, Interlink only came up to Io's shoulder. And, as she had said, the small mech would have had to carry each of the boxes by hand seeing as his alt-mode was an _ivex_-a shield generator.

It had its uses, but not for cargo transport.

"And, now that you're done, are you headed home?" Ratchet asked meeting her cobalt gaze.

The femme flexed her nacelles in a shrug. "I guess so." She drawled thoughtfully, her optics turning to consider the lab's solitary window. Beyond the glass, downtown Iacon glowed enticingly. "Though part of me insists that doing so would be a waste of a perfectly good evening. Who knows," another shrug. "Maybe I'll head over to Maccadam's. Primus knows I could definitely use a cube after spending the last eight _groons_ sorting medical supplies." Suddenly, her face lit up. Pulling on his bracer excitedly, she met his gaze, lips beaming a broad smile. "Why don't you come with me?"

"W-what?" Ratchet sputtered. On a scale of one to one hundred, with one hundred being incredibly unlikely, Io asking him out would have placed in the tens of millions. "Y-you really want to…?" He somehow managed, his face-plate warming furiously.

Io smiled up at him. "I asked you, didn't I?"

Optics widening in disbelief, Ratchet tried to find his voice. After several futile attempts at dialogue, he finally lowered his head. "I-I'm…poor company, trust me."

"So you say," The femme replied, coyly.

"I mean it," The seasoned medic insisted. "I'm an old model, I don't like loud music, I can't dance…well, I can, but probably not what you younger 'Bots would consider dancing…" His voice faltered, and he subconsciously raised his right bracer so that he could rub at his neck plating, dislodging Io's hand in the process. "You're young. You…" Again, his voice box stomped on the brakes. "Y-you would probably have more fun...with someone else."

For a moment, the femme was silent.

Ratchet stared intently down at his left hand, his processor laboring beneath a pounding tide of insecurity.

Suddenly, her clawed hand came into focus, and for the third time in as many cycles, his spark flittered delightedly in his chest as her steely fingers grazed his. Lifting his head, he met her gaze. An emotion, one that the seasoned medic couldn't easily place, pleaded with him from behind her optics. "If..." She paused, and her voice glitched, uncharacteristically. "If I wanted go to Maccadam's with someone else, I would have." She leaned closer. "As it stands, I asked you."

For several long moments, all Ratchet could do was stare at her in disbelief.

He wanted to go with her. He wanted it so badly that he could hardly believe that he would even consider refusing.

It was the same argument; the same raging torrent of guilt, dread, and self-loathing that had been plaguing him ever since she walked into the lab.

He would only slow her down.

He couldn't possibly give her the future that he knew that she truly wanted.

Inadequate…

With every vice, Ratchet's face-plate paled. Eventually, defeated, couldn't help but lower his head. "I-I should probably finish this up."

Io's fingers momentarily tightened against his before going slack. "Suit yourself…" She sighed a moment later.

Ratchet glanced up at her, and was surprised to see disappointment impressed upon her face-plate.

"Good night, Ratchet." Io said, rising to her trods. As she withdrew her hand, she allowed her clawed fingertips to graze the ventral surface of his bracer—a parting gesture that she had been favoring as of late. Breaking his gaze, she made her way toward the exit, her wings flaring languidly back to their usual position. Just as the door opened to receive her, Io paused. Hand trailing the door frame, she turned and considered Ratchet over her shoulder. Optics flickering with emotion, the femme opened her mouth as if to say something, hesitated for an astrosecond, then sighed as she left the lab. The automatic door closed behind her with an unenthusiastic swoosh that echoed pitifully in the silence that followed her departure.

For a full _breem_, Ratchet could only stare blankly at the door, his processor laboring as it reconsidered the last few moments of their dialogue.

No matter how many times he replayed her words, he just couldn't find it in his spark to believe them, despite all evidence to the contrary. The disappointment in her optics when he refused her offer, the look that she had given him before departing…all of them suggested that she truly meant what she said. That she did want to spend time with him, and not just as a shield or lab assistant.

_But…why would she choose me, of all 'Bots?_ That was what he couldn't wrap his processor around.

Io was every mechs dream. She was intelligent, attractive, hard working, and one pit of a good fighter.

_And I would only hold her back._

That he knew down to his spark!

And yet…

Ratchet's console trilled, suddenly, stalling his thoughts.

He let it go for a cycle, but eventually the call took on an almost pleading tone, and he found himself forced to answer it, lest it echo him deeper into self-contempt.

Click. "Is that you, Torque?"

"Yeah, sorry to bother you, Ratchet…" the deep voice replied. "But Gauge is pressing us for an answer. You know how impatient she is."

Forcing himself to focus, the old medic shook his head. Gauge was quite arguably, the most unpleasant engineer that Ratchet had ever worked with. Intelligent, true, but abrasive. "I was in the process of checking the thermal coil coupling when I was…interrupted." Immediately, his thoughts began to drift back to his shield, so much so that he almost missed Torque's reply.

"Why would you bother checking…?" His voice cut off suddenly. "It can't be…hold on an astrosec."

A new window opened on the readout as Torque accessed the coil's specs. A flurry of calculations streamed through the window, followed by an enthusiastic "YES!"

Compelling his processor to refocus, Ratchet considered the numbers and smiled. "You've got a short in the coil's lead-in line." he translated.

"You're absolutely right! A short there would cause the system to overheat; the regulators would adjust output of the field to compensate!"

Ratchet smiled at the young engineer's enthusiasm. "I take it you can handle things from here?"

"Of course. I just…I never would have thought to check the coils. Thanks again for your help, Ratchet. I owe you big time."

Ratchet rolled his optics, though his smile didn't falter. "Don't worry about it." Punching the communication switch, the old medic effectively ended the call. Normally, he would've dismissed Torque's platitudes with a few words of encouragement, but his thoughts were all on Io.

And their situation.

_But…no._ He growled to himself. There was still work to be done around the lab, and for all of Io's sorting and copious data logs, his tendency toward the obsessive-compulsive necessitated that he inspect every new part.

Considering the first pile, he began logging the equipment: Two _hedron_ inductor coils required for fine-tuning energon flow to T-cogs; sixteen J-spanners, essential for maintenance on wheel alignments; five torque bolts, a rare part but useful for aerial bots that had propeller-based alt-modes.

He moved on to the next: Five _Jor_-springs, a pre-made _lantheron_ net, a new _Glion_ gun-Io had accidentally mutilated his last one-a box of _skyn_-sutures…

_Io…_

Despite his best effort to lose himself in the mundane, thoughts that needed a good dose of consideration kept poking through the flimsy mental barrier keeping them at bay. In fact, he was halfway through checking out several replacement plasma inducers when he realized that unless he addressed the feelings that he had developed for his shield, he would just sit there all evening stuck in an endless cycle of meaningless introspection.

He had to admit that he hadn't even seen the _Glion_ gun, which needed the most delicate handling, merely glancing at its existence and tossing it back onto the berth where Io had left it.

He paused and turned his head toward the window, optics distant. When Io returned, as she would on the morrow, relations between them would be strained, especially now that she had intimated at deeper feelings for him.

Sighing, he rubbed his a hand across his faceplate.

"I must be out of my mind," the old medic muttered to himself as he re-inspected a new J-spanner.

"Yeah, you must be to treat a _Glion_ gun so callously," said a gruff voice behind him.

Ratchet jumped and the J-spanner went flying, impacting the wall with a loud clang and skidding behind some boxes.

Turning, cursing under his breath at the ridiculousness of being startled a _second_ time, the old medic found himself looking down at the shortest, stockiest 'Bot of which the clinic could boast.

Interlink crossed his arms, and considered the larger mech with a raised brow-ridge. "Never seen you jump like that before, Boss-bot." he rumbled in his deep baritone. "You ok?"

"I'm _fine_." Ratchet growled, sharply raising his bracers for emphasis. "Yes sir; never better. Can't complain about a slagging thing…" His voice cut off abruptly, and he lowered his head, amazed at the biting tone to his sarcasm. He hadn't intended to respond so harshly; it wasn't like him, after all, to lose his cool.

Well…not like this anyway, and certainly not in the company of others.

"If you want, I can come back later." Interlink replied after a moment.

"No," Ratchet said, sighing. "It's just…I've been looking at the ground bridge specs for several _groons_, now, and I can't seem to diagnose the problem." He gestured absently over one shoulder-cap toward the console.

Which had since gone dark from disuse.

"Uh huh," Interlink drawled disbelievingly. "Had another fight with Io, have you?"

"Wait, what!? Preposterous!" Ratchet said, turning, a shocked look upon his face-plate. "I have _not_ been fighting with Io, thank you very much. I have been working…diligently…on…." The old medic stopped in mid rant, his right hand gesturing rapidly as he struggled to find the next word that would continue his ruse.

"…ground bridges?"

"Yes! Exactly!"

"Because ground bridge work involves lobbing costly medical equipment across your lab?" The young surgeon replied with a smirk.

"Gah!" Ratchet all but screamed, advancing on the smaller mech. "Why are you even here?"

"I was looking for Io," Interlink responded with a smile. Used to _everyone_ being taller than him, he didn't seem the slightest bit intimidated; in fact, the way he grinned back at the bigger medi-bot was almost antagonistic.

Ratchet stopped, shoulder-caps heaving at his insolence, but face confused. "Why… would you be looking for Io?" he asked guardedly.

Amused at the combination of emotional states, Interlink held up his hands and chuckled disarmingly. "No, I'm not looking to take her out on the Skyway, if that's what you're thinking. I already have my hands full with Triage." The surgeon grinned even wider.

"Wait, what?" Ratchet said again, this time thoroughly flummoxed. "You two? You mean you two are…?"

Interlink raised a brow-ridge.

"Oh." Ratchet said simply, and sat down on the bench in front of his console.

This revelation didn't assist with his confusion any-not that it mattered-but the thought of _them_ in a relationship only set off a cacophony of internal jeers and self-doubt that always accompanied such considerations with Io. Add to this the grumbling disagreements at himself for not taking her up on her offer and the innocuous mystery of why Interlink had come seeking Io, which his processor was too bothered to voice, and the compulsive tweaking in the back of mind reminding himself to look for the J-spanner…

Chuckling lightly, Interlink pulled himself up onto the bench so that he could sit next to Ratchet.

"It's okay Boss-bot," he said through his trademark, face-plate splitting smile. "I just wanted to thank her for her help today. Didn't mean to send you into an energon-tizzy."

Ratchet scowled at him. "I am not brooding, thank you very much."

"Of course not. How silly of me." Interlink retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Berating oneself aloud while breaking equipment and rewarding thankful comrades with snarky attitudes and bouts of suspicious jealousy must all be in a day's work for the occupants of LR-12."

"You're not helping." Ratchet growled.

"Neither was Io when she kept up a running stream of invectives about the insensitive, demanding, hostile, loveable, charming, debonair medi-bot that she had the displeasure of working for these last few stellar cycles."

"She said… wait, what?!" He said for the third time in as many cycles. Shaking his head as if the motion would clear his processor enough to dissect Interlink's words, he fixed the smaller 'Bot with a stare. "She… really? But… why?"

"I don't know. What does Triage see in me? My tall, statuesque physique?"

Ratchet couldn't help but smile at Interlink's self-effacing grin, head cocked to the side as it was with optics as big as his brow ridges could lift.

"Oh, for Primus' sake," Ratchet said at last, standing. "This isn't helping!" Throwing up his hands, he stalked about the lab, taking in all of his equipment without seeing anything. Especially the sixteenth J-spanner.

"And why not?" The surgeon replied jumping down so that he could follow Ratchet on his rounds. "My guess is she pushed one of your buttons, you pushed her away, and now you're regretting it."

"Rrr-ah!" Ratchet said, as he turned on the smaller 'Bot. "How do you do that?!"

"Unique perspective on life, I guess," Interlink smirked. "Triage hates it."

Ratchet sighed. "I'm too old."

"Really? Then how come you have one heck of a fine suitor that goes all moon-eyed when you become the topic of conversation?"

"Io does not go moon-eyed."

"So you admit you've noticed."

"Of course… I mean…" He fixed Interlink with that look. "I hate you."

The surgeon 's lips twisted, once again, into his trademark smile. "Hate me all you want." He replied with a deep, rumbling chuckle. "As long as you realize that you actually care, I don't mind in the slightest."

"But…I…" Ratchet's voice faltered, and he lowered his head. "It isn't that simple…" He finished after a moment, his hand subconsciously rubbing the back of his neck.

Interlink cocked a brow ridge. "Is that so?"

"She has her career ahead of her." Ratchet gestured lamely with his bracer as his spark tightened in his chest. "I mean, what could she expect here?" He allowed his hands to drop heavily to his sides. "A future with no advancement, shackled to a senescent field medic with no aspirations beyond anything that he currently has." His words were harsh on his lips, and his shoulder-caps drooped sadly. "She… deserves better."

Interlink's smirk faltered at Ratchet's harsh view of the truth. "Isn't that up to her to decide?"

Ratchet opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused at the last moment as he considered the surgeon's rebuttal. "It's my duty to protect her." He replied with a shake of his head. "And as her mentor, her well-being and happiness should take precedent over any feelings I may…" Another pause, almost too small to discern, then, throwing his hands angrily up into the air, Ratchet all but shouted. "She doesn't want me! It's a dream!" Turning and stalking back to his console, the medic placed his hands on the counter and allowed his arms to support most of his body weight. "Believing anything else is just… foolish." He finished weakly, clenching his fists as he fought back a growing tide of anger and frustration.

For several long moments, the lab was quiet save for the gentle hum of idling machinery.

Ratchet stared vaguely at the darkened console, his optics distant. Despite feeling like he had more to say, no matter how much he tried, he just couldn't will himself to do so.

After a time, Interlink sighed, made his way over to his friend, and reclaimed his previous spot on the bench.

Ratchet's optics darted briefly to the side and considered the surgeon's unusually somber countenance for a moment before fixating, once again, on the darkened computer screen.

"You know…" Interlink rumbled, thoughtfully. "I thought the exact same thing when Triage expressed… interest in me."

Ratchet listened quietly, his optics attentive, though still focused ahead of him.

"I mean, we're 'bout as dissimilar as night and day, to say nothing of the height difference." He chuckled lightly as he waived his hand over his head. "The classic 'odd couple,' if you will, and for a time, I thought that friendship was all that was meant for us." He shrugged his bulky shoulder caps. "I mean, why would someone as frightfully intelligent as Triage care about someone like me? Sure, I learned as much as I could from him about spark surgery, but I'm not a brain-bot; I don't have that kind of focus. I wasn't built to be smart…or attractive. I was built to protect construction workers from falling debris." Interlink shook his head, and Ratchet couldn't help but turn his full attention on the tiny mech. "Yet…no matter how unappealing I was, nor how much of a pain in the actuator I was as a student, or how lame it might have been to be stuck with someone of my stature, he still cared, still saw past all of that to see in me traits and abilities that I never would have thought someone could claim of me."

He turned and fixed Ratchet with a stern, light-blue glare. "Just like me, you are your own worst enemy."

Ratchet's head snapped back in startlement. "What are you…?"

Interlink help up one of his tiny hands, and made a clicking noise with his glossa. "Silence. I'm talking, here." He grated smugly. "You're hard on yourself, way more than you should be. And, given what I know about you, that'll _never_ change."

Ratchet's brow ridges narrowed at the light insult, though he said nothing.

Interlink was never really known for his tact.

"You have flaws; heck, we all do to some extent." He waived his hand, dismissively. "But, if you truly care about someone, you see past all of that muck…" Suddenly, his gaze brightened. "And see the true nature of the spark, itself."

Despite the ringing truth to Interlink's words, Ratchet merely shrugged his shoulder caps. "While this is all fine and good, it does nothing to…"

"Woah, Doc, I ain't done." The surgeon chuckled.

"What have I told you about calling me that?" The older mech grumbled warningly.

Interlink's smirk broadened, though when he spoke, he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Tell, me, what do you see when you look at Io?" Holding up his hands as Ratchet opened his mouth to reply, Interlink continued. "Let me guess, she's really smart, she can fight like a mech, and she's pretty."

Ratchet blinked in acknowledgement, though he was still far too confused to actually find his voice.

"I'll take that as a yes." Interlink replied with a laugh. Then, suddenly serious, he fixed the larger mech with a stern optic. "What do you think others see when they look at her?"

"The same," Ratchet huffed. "And therein lies the problem!"

Interlink shook his head. "Not at all."

"What do you mean 'Not at all?'"

The surgeon nodded grimly. "I can tell you that when most people look at her, all they see are the words 'former 'Con' in big, bold, neon letters."

Ratchet's optics widened. "But that's…she's been an Autobot for almost fifty stellar cycles. I don't see why anyone would…"

"_You_ don't see anything wrong with it," Interlink replied, jabbing his index finger against Ratchet's medial plate for emphasis. "You've trained yourself to overlook it-you focus on the here and now because the past leaves too many questions, too many possibilities for regret that get in the way of the present; heck, you don't like considering your own past so why should another's matter right?-but others aren't so willing to forget. To them, she's an unknown variable; if she was willing to leave the 'Cons on a whim, what's to stop her from leaving the Autobots?"

"I don't think the destruction of Nova Cronum constitutes a 'whim.'" Ratchet replied almost angrily.

"Hey, you're preachin' to the choir, Doc," Interlink replied holding his hands up in defense. "Had that been my home I probably would have done the same thing. My point is that very few people outside of our circle of friends, actually respect Io for her talents. They just don't trust her. And…" His expression darkened, and the squat surgeon opened his mouth as if to speak and then paused. "Well…perhaps that's not my place to say…but there are other things, too." Interlink closed his optics and looked away. "Suffice to say-and this is putting it mildly-she's been having a hard time… fitting in."

Ratchet listened to his friend with wide, disbelieving optics. "But…I haven't…"

Interlink fixed the older medic with a look. "Of course not. It's not your fault that you don't see it so much; most of your time is spent here." Interlink paused, optics distant as he gazed around the cluttered office. "There's a lot of prejudice floating around downtown-for former neutrals and _so-called_ turncoats-especially after we lost Nova Cronum." The surgeon's brow ridges narrowed. "Emotions are running high, and since Io is one of the few of those groups in their sight-lines, there are a lot of 'Bots out there who would gladly lay all of the blame for such atrocities on _her_ wings. Use _her_ as a scapegoat." He shook his head. "Io's as tough as I've seen 'em. No matter what scrap she's dealt, she somehow manages to keep up appearances, puts on a really nice mask when she comes to work. But my quarters are just down the hall from hers, and I can tell you that there are times when she's buckled under that oppression."

The disbelief that once resided on Ratchet's faceplate about romantic matters transitioned quickly to shock at each of Interlink's revelations. In fact, the incomprehensible sadness at his own cluelessness nearly burned a hole through his spark. Io in distress? How blind he must really be to have missed such things, especially after calling himself her friend for over two stellar cycles.

And…how far they must be from even his fantasies of a deeper relationship if Io didn't trust him enough to confide in him.

True, she had come clean about some things-mostly regarding her time as a wing-man, and some of the bombing runs that she had been a part of- but to leave him in the dark when it came to more personal matters of spark…to suffer in silence, while he assumed her happiness...

Ratchet's shoulder's sagged and he shook his head, regretfully. "I've been a fool," he said and slumped heavily down onto the bench.

Interlink considered him with a confused expression. "I don't follow," he said raising his right brow-ridge.

"To believe a relationship possible when age and advancement separate us only to be blind to the more pertinent matters of self and ostracization."

"Wait, what?" It was Interlink's turn to use the repeated expression.

"You just got done telling me about how I haven't even noticed her basic problems-that I don't know her at all." Ratchet replied sadly. "How could I have ever thought there could be more?!"

"Weren't you listening at all?!" Interlink looked at Ratchet suddenly angry. "This isn't about _you_!"

The older medic nodded. "Right. It's about her…"

"And about how she kept all of this from you so that she could focus on her duties!"

Ratchet's brows drew down in anger. "She hid all of this from me because she doesn't trust me."

"Wow! And here I thought _I_ was dense." The surgeon snarked back, his tiny hands gesturing angrily. "Did you ever stop moping long enough to think that she may have done it so you would judge her on who she is not on what everyone else seems to think of her!"

Ratchet opened his mouth to reply, but paused suddenly as his processor stumbled over itself in its attempts to marry what he thought the smaller 'Bot would say to what he actually wound up saying. "Wait, what?"

Interlink smiled, gently, and when he spoke his voice was soft. "She likes you. If all the intellectually-satisfying screaming sessions weren't enough to indicate her interest in you, or all of the times I saw her leaving your office with a smile, then the last eight _groons_ we spent together would have been sufficient to solidify her level of need for your companionship." His smile broadened. "Do you honestly think she'd talk about you in such a manner if she felt you were neglecting even a basic understanding of the tribulations she goes through each solar cycle?

The older medic shuttered his optics rapidly. "Um…"

"Even considering that, it's clear that she cares, which means that she didn't enlighten you out of principle! My guess is that she wants to _know_ you care before she even broaches the subject with you, and who knows…" At this he rolled his shoulder caps in shrug. "Maybe she's afraid that telling you will somehow change your feelings toward her."

"But that's ridiculous!" Ratchet replied, jumping to his trods. "So she did horrible things as a 'Con. Who cares? I don't!" He gestured wildly to emphasize his point. "What's done is done…no sense in lingering over it."

"Finally, you admit it to yourself." The surgeon smirked and patted Ratchet's bracer affectionately. "And that, I think, is what Io was hoping for."

Ratchet said nothing, his expression troubled as he considered the smaller 'Bot's words.

"Don't you think the reason why she asked you to Mccadams tonight-no, don't look at me that way; I wasn't listening in, she told me she was hoping to get you out of this place-to take you into the one place where you would be forced to confront all of the garbage that surrounds her-that maybe she was ready to confide in you all of this stuff? That your relationship had grown so much that she was willing to take the greatest chance of all? That she doesn't care about aspirations, or age, or charge-shield protocol? She just wants you!"

Ratchet looked at the smaller 'Bot as if someone had just clubbed him with a J-spanner. The sixteenth to be exact.

"You see it, don't you?" Interlink pressed.

"I'm too old."

"That's weak 'Doc, and you know it."

"But…this could ruin everything."

"Oh, and now Ratchet has ascended into clairvoyance; he sees and knows exactly how everything is going to turn out." The squat surgeon smugly mocked, crossing his arms, enjoying the fact that he was annoying his friend. "Hey, she seemed willing to risk it. Are you just going to stand there and not do the same?"

Ratchet glared down at the smaller mech. If there was one thing he hated, it was being poked into doing something regardless of his own feelings on the matter.

And he absolutely hated it when the person doing the poking was right.

That they had been all along.

The dour expression marring Ratchet's face-plate lifted, and the old medic allowed a light chuckle to play across his lips. "You're good, you know that."

"Yeah, I know."

"But I still hate you."

"Meh, It's a living."

Lips turning in a slight smile, Ratchet wished Interlink a pleasant evening before quickly making his way toward the door.


	11. Chapter 10: Maccadam's

Cameos abound in this chapter! Nods to G1, Animated, and some of the UK marvel comics. :D Had to do quite a bit of research regarding Maccadam's whereabouts in Iacon and whatnot to add depth and flavor to the Cybertronian nightlife. All in all, this is one of my favorite chapters to write...so far.

* * *

Abandoning his alt-mode in favor of a pair of trods, Ratchet made his way slowly through an ever burgeoning crowd of 'Bots toward the famous marquis of Maccadam's Old Oil House.

This section of Iacon was always crowded, one of the main thoroughfares stretching from the High Council Pavilions to the Energon Pools, but it was the position of the brewpub that turned typical congestion into a veritable roadblock.

And for good reason.

Existing for countless stellar cycles, Maccadam's was the go-to of choice for 'Bots tired after a long day of work. Add to that 'Bots trying to drown their sorrows from a life locked in a rigid caste system, to those seeking a means of escape from a war that seemed to drag on forever, it was no wonder that Cybertronians of every shape, size, and model all but poured from its shiny blue doors. Ratchet could even see a few Decepticons in the crowd-under intense observation, of course-Maccadam's being a sort of 'safe haven' enjoyed by all, their presence tolerated by the High Council in the futile hopes of establishing dialogue for a peaceful solution.

_Eh, stranger things have happened_, Ratchet mused as he moved toward the entry doors.

Unfortunately, such flippant thoughts couldn't help but call to mind the true strangeness of the evening, namely his presence here in the first place. As that thought reverberated around his processor, fading as it did with the attentions of the moment, it couldn't help but make him pause.

After his discussion with Interlink, and in the ensuing drive to Maccadam's, Ratchet was convinced that he had made the right choice in following Io, and that tonight would be the night that he discovered, once and for all, where things stood between them.

And…if he even had a shot, as far as romance was concerned.

But annoyingly, romance brought up the possibility of "partnership" and that specter inevitably called forward thoughts of inadequacy-harsh self-criticisms that scrabbled and nipped at his higher functions the same way a pet turbo-fox would manipulate its master to throw a toy-and no amount of shaking his head or studiously considering the front entrance with pinched optics, could quell it, not when he was this close.

_I'm hardly a prize…_ he couldn't help but think for the thousandth time. _She would...NO!_ Clenching his fist, he killed the thread. _Interlink is right. It's her decision to make, not mine._

And…should she choose someone else…

Ratchet lowered his head.

This was what he feared the most.

There was a subtle irony here that, had he not been filled with self-loathing, he might have chuckled. Here was a 'Bot who had braved thousands of horrors in hundreds of battlefields, who had risked imprisonment and social ostracization by shirking his caste to study ground bridge engineering and medical science, who had fought Decepticons, watched thousands of warriors fade to gun-metal gray, lost friends, mentors, shields...and here he was, terrified at the prospect of rejection from a femme the slightest fraction of his age.

Another sigh. _If only…_

_No!_ Ratchet argued internally and forced himself to consider the brewpub in the hopes of banishing that depressing line of thought… and stall for time against the inevitable confrontation.

Maccadam's was a gem of clashing cultures and architectural styles, a brilliant memento of another age-or a blight, depending on who you asked.

Dominating the culture, economy, and aesthetics of Sub-level Six, Maccadam's was a 'unique' blending of Golden Age elegance and Post-modern minimalism, so 'unique' that Ratchet couldn't help but cringe every time he saw or thought of it. At first glance, the beautifully tapered cylinder that comprised the main part of the building decidedly fit into the Golden Age architecture of Historic Iacon, capped as it was by an amazing crystalline dome. In fact, the dome, easily the building's most aesthetically pleasing attribute, reflected so much light that on bright days like the summer solstice, 'Bots as far away as the Sea of Rust could see its brilliance and be comforted by thoughts of home.

But here, all beauty ended, juxtaposed as it was against the necessities of safety and convenience.

For example, the front entrance and main marquis were framed by two smaller cylinders that served as the building's primary air exchangers. These were mandatory safety measures set in place to prevent the build-up of combustible fumes from the various oils and fuels being imbibed by the building's patrons.

But, necessary as they were, they only served to make the establishment feel like a giant rocket ship, perpetually teetering on the edge of ignition.

And, given the clientele, this wasn't that poor of a metaphor. Fights were so commonplace that only the really legendary ones received any attention, and it wasn't out of the ordinary for some explosion or another-never pinpointed but probably from the production of some of the more exotic libations-to rock the region from Sub-Levels Three to Seven.

Further complementing this image, were two, luminous fins-giant billboards that proclaimed "Maccadam's" in glowing, pink neon characters, each easily half a mechanometer tall-welded to the sides of the main cylinder. At their base, each fin was moored into a nearly featureless, triangular _ni'ri_, a small building disconnected from the main gallery by a retractable partition. These building served as private meeting rooms and could be subdivided into as many as four separate compartments for maximum versatility. And, as if that wasn't plebeian enough, the bar had gotten so popular over the stellar cycles as to necessitate a drop shaft to allow patrons to access the different levels within the main cylinder-a large, ugly rectangle sticking from the back of the pub like some unsightly cockpit.

Smoothness of form garishly adorned with harsh angles and necessarily evils, the bar had always seemed like it had originally been planned for some other, higher purpose, only to be denigrated by dealing with and serving the dregs of Cybertronian society.

_They could have at least tried to make it fit._ Ratchet shook his head, as he always did, disapprovingly. Part of him wished that some lofty, multi-dimensional being would sense all of the inherent, architectural wrongs about the building, visit Cybertron and vaporize the structure in a benevolent gesture of mercy.

Smiling at his own dry humor, the seasoned medic, calmed as he was by the astroseconds of consideration, unconsciously started toward the big blue doors.

"Are you going to stand there all night, _crie'st'laxni_?" A breezy voice called out over his shoulder. "Pining yet never acting? Or are you actually going to pass the threshold and experience all that life has to offer?"

Ratchet jumped yet again-was _everyone_ going to do this to him tonight? Did he have a sign on him? He made a mental note to check-and turned his head sharply, scowling as he considered the shorter black-and-white mech that had since moved to stand next to him.

"Jazz?" He wondered, his scowl disappearing quickly behind a surprised smile.

The younger mech returned the expression and considered Ratchet thoughtfully from behind his trademark, blue visor. "Indeed." He clapped Ratchet affectionately on the shoulder-cap. "It's been a while."

Ratchet took the blow with a faltering smile.

Fifty stellar cycles.

The last time he had seen Jazz was also the last day he had visited Maccadam's… the day that Gamma died.

Involuntarily, snippets of that evening surged through his processor: going to the pub with the purpose of getting as slag-faced drunk as he could possibly manage; dulling the pain of Gamma's loss; trying to drown out the anguish of his own culpability in the matter; flipping a table; some sort of self-initiated rant; punching someone; being carried home by Jazz and Optimus…

He focused on Jazz to ward against the warm energon that threatened to suffuse his face and fight against the subtle twinge in his spark.

"It still bothers you, doesn't it?" Jazz said in a mellow, non-accusatory tone.

A cursory inspection showed sincere concern etched onto his faceplate and Ratchet couldn't help but allow a portion of his smile to return.

"It always will," Ratchet replied, softly.

Jazz nodded, smiled sympathetically, and clapped Ratchet's shoulder again. "So," he began in a slightly more upbeat tone. "What brings you here tonight? Not looking to drink yourself into oblivion, I hope." he chuckled disarmingly, and held up his hands at Ratchet's scowl. "My bearings are still sore from the last time I had to drag your aft home."

Ratchet glanced down at the smaller mech and allowed a slight smirk to play across his features. Jazz always had a way of making those around him smile. From his playful antics, to his laid-back attitude, to his almost limitless knowledge of esoteric cultural phenomenon, the former Iacon data-clerk always managed to find the good in every situation, dour or otherwise.

Which is why he and Ratchet had become good friends though the medic had few others.

Turning his head so that he could reconsider Maccadam's main entrance, the medic replied. "I'm meeting someone."

"Really?" Jazz wondered moving quickly on his trods so that he could meet Ratchet's thoughtful gaze. "Meeting someone as in 'socially'?" He clarified with a coy smile.

"And why, pray-tell, is that of any consequence to you?" The old medic snapped, his hands taking a defensive posture atop his hip-plating.

"Ah, now there's the Ratchet we all know and love." Jazz replied with a laugh. "Just curious. After all, we are talking about you."

Ratchet rolled his optics. The medic's sense of humor was almost non-existent, an aspect of his personality that Jazz seemed to do everything in his power to exploit, almost as if making the old medic scowl at every opportunity was part of some elaborate game of wills with the end goal of getting the old medic to laugh. Even if just once.

Perhaps that was another reason why Ratchet condescended to tolerate the speedster's presence, just to deny him that victory, however small and insignificant it might be.

"Well?" Jazz pressed with a smirk.

"'Well' nothing. It's none of your business." Ratchet replied, smugly, crossing his arms and tossing his helm.

"All right, be like that, then, you old pipe-in-the-mud." The young mech replied with a chuckle. "No big loss here-Blaster'll fill me in on any provocative developments."

Ratchet reconsidered his friend, his right brow-ridge raised thoughtfully. "Blaster?" Now there was a 'Bot that Ratchet hadn't seen in a very long time. "You mean he's…"

"Here? Oh, yeah." Jazz jerked his thumb toward the front entrance. "Forte-the musician who practically created the _istm'e_ genre-was scheduled to handle all of tonight's entertainment. That's why I'm here; got special leave from Optimus so I could record his performance." Suddenly, Jazz's expression darkened. "The 'Cons intercepted his convoy just south of Tagon. He was found by some soldiers on patrol, but died before they could get him to a clinic." He shook his head, and his lips twisted into a frown. "Such a waste…"

Ratchet's expression softened. "I'm sorry to hear that…"

"Thanks, man." A smile crept back across his lips as he continued-it was hard to make Jazz unhappy for long. "Any way… Blaster got the 'gig. He's set up near the distillery. You can't miss him, though I don't think he'd be much for conversation."

"Why not?" Ratchet couldn't help but wonder. Blaster loved to talk almost as much as he loved music, which was saying something.

"He's trying something new tonight, playing around with some holo-tech that Hound set him up with." Jazz's expression brightened. "The other day I was digging through some Golden Age stuff, files about music culture on organic worlds. It's amazing the things that they think of, organics, I mean." he met Ratchet's gaze and smiled, dreamily. "Being unable to transform, they create technology that allows them to function in ways that go well beyond their original design, their musicians not-withstanding. They create sound tables and synthesizers and operate them manually!" Though his optics were hidden by his visor, Ratchet was almost certain that they were wide with excitement. "Can you picture that? Manual operation? Anyway, when I told Blaster about it, he loved the idea so much that he swore he'd try to rig up some sort of holo-avatar for his next performance, literally create something that would appear to be playing him as if he were an organically derived machine. He managed to pull it off tonight; it's really unique."

"I…bet it is." Ratchet replied with a grimace. The thought of being played with or manipulated by an inferior, flesh-based creature was about as appealing as the thought of giving Megatron an oil bath.

"Ne-who, I won't keep you any longer, my friend." Jazz said with a smile and another affectionate clap on the shoulder. "No doubt your _ivlis_ is waiting."

At the use of the word "_ivlis_" Ratchet felt his face-plate warm. It was an older term, perhaps early Golden Age. It translated to "deep, romantic love interest;" like "partner," only more intimate.

A self-satisfying smirk played across Jazz's lips, almost as if he had intentionally used the word hoping that it would dislodge some nugget of juicy gossip. "See 'ya 'round, Ratch." The he said with a chuckle, clapping Ratchet one last time on the shoulder, before he turned and slipped quietly away into the loitering masses.

The old medic smiled and followed his friend for a moment with his optics. Then, with a sigh, he turned and continued on toward the main entrance.

Flanking the door was the bar's bouncer, a Megatron-sized 'Bot named "Rocky." Almost simian in appearance, the large mech loomed over the crowd, his optics constantly on the move, dancing from 'Bot to 'Bot as if he expected any one of them to suddenly start something-which, with Decepticons in the crowd was always a possibility.

As Ratchet approached the door, Rocky turned his head and considered him with a look of surprise that quickly mutated into a dark scowl. "You?" he growled in a deep, rumbling baritone. Leaning forward, the armor of his chassis and arms flexing and flaring in a manner that might have made a lesser 'Bot run for the hills, he brought his face close to Ratchet's. "You've got some pretty big bearings coming back here after that stunt you pulled last time."

"It's been fifty stellar cycles."

Rocky rubbed his jaw, the kind of action a 'Bot might make remembering an old injury, and considered the smaller medic. "It took two stellar cycles to repair all the damage! Two!" Lifting his right hand, he flexed his five, huge fingers into a fist that was easily as large as Ratchet's grill. "No, you step out of line, tonight, and you'll have me to answer to."

Considering the tone-this time he couldn't help but recoil subconsciously-Ratchet replied. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Then we understand each other." He rumbled warningly even as he moved to open the door.

The jarring juxtaposition of loud, cacophonous music and the collective chatter of hundreds of individual voices all carousing and singing at maximum volume, assaulted Ratchet's audio-receptors the moment the portal opened, but, considering the glaring look Rocky continued to give him, without hesitation the seasoned medic slipped into the bar as quickly as he could manage.

Even organic-handling seemed preferable to any length of time spent in Rocky's presence.

As the door closed behind him, all he could do was stare numbly ahead for several  
moments, the bouncer's not-so-subtle threat rumbling through his processor like the remnants of a terrible dream.

_What a way to start an evening_, the medic couldn't help but think.

Shaking his head, he turned and considered his new surrounding, his optics searching here and there for any sign of his shield.

Immediately to his left was the distillery, an ornate collection of tall, golden cylinders that were used to store-and in some instances, create-the various intoxicants served to the building's patrons. There were energon tanks as well, though these were only ever used for storage as energon was impossible to synthesize.

On the north side of the distillery, next to the bar, was an open section of floor normally reserved for live entertainment. As it were, the entire space was occupied by a complex-not to mention garishly colored-assortment of mixers, speakers, and amplifiers; Blaster giving his alt-mode a spin.

And, just as Jazz had said, leaping from component to component was a holographic organic creature roughly the size of Ratchet's index finger. It was a squat being with clawed hands, weak-looking limbs, and three fins framing it's round, fleshy face. Portions of its scaly body were covered with a thin, flimsy fabric that didn't seem to serve any useful purpose other than to augment the creature's natural, green color scheme.

One of the cavorting on-lookers held out their hand, and Blaster-ever the showman-willed the creature to leap onto the proffered limb where it performed a little dance, much to the delight of the gawking patrons.

Ratchet shook his head, even as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. How the young musician could live with himself was beyond him.

Just as he turned to consider the crowded bar area, he felt something land on top of his helm.

Much laughter ensued.

"Oh, for Primus' sake, Blaster…" he muttered, as an ugly, alien face smirked its way into his line of sight. Judging by the way the hologram's weight was distributed, Ratchet was certain that the holo-creature was dangling upside-down from his chevrons.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be." Blaster's voice pouted. Complimenting his tone, the creature's cheek's sagged, and it crossed its tiny arms all the while turning up its non-existent nose. "Too important, too high-and-mighty, now that you went and got yourself promoted." The creature then considered him with a shrewd, slatted eye. "Is that any way to treat your old drinking buddy?"

"Oh, come off it." Ratchet replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, his lips stretching into a playful smirk. "At least I've had something legitimate keeping me occupied."

"Ouch." Blaster replied with a chuckle. "It's a good thing I don't take you seriously, otherwise I might have actually taken offense to that comment."

Ratchet rolled his optics, and winced as Blaster allowed the hologram to slide off of his helm where it made a nimble turn in mid-air, grabbed his right chevron with one of his clawed hands, and swung easily to perch on his shoulder.

Ratchet found it amazing that Blaster could perform such fine-scale manipulations and still manage his music, which the musician had since toned down to something that might have been enjoyable, had Ratchet not been thinking about Io and all the thousands of ways their relationship could possibly go wrong.

Not to mention how absolutely ridiculous he must have looked standing there in the middle of a crowded bar with a tiny, green alien perched on his shoulder.

"So, Jazz tells me that you're here lookin' for love…er, I mean your shield." With a growl of displeasure, Ratchet reached for the avatar, only to have it leap nimbly from between his fingers and jump back to the top of his helm where he stood, smugly, with a lopsided grin. "Still the same old Ratchet…" He mocked. "Can't take a joke to save your spark."

"Do you honestly delight in making me look like a fool?" Ratchet snapped.

"Sure do." Blaster replied with a chuckle.

"Why do I even bother…" the medic wondered with yet another disapproving shake of his head.

Blaster laughed again. "Because you enjoy hating me too much to make me go away."

Ratchet sighed and allowed his arms to flop heavily to his sides.

"Of course, if it makes you feel any better," the musician began in a slightly more sympathetic tone. "Io is sitting at the table nearest the patio…" His voice cut off suddenly in time with the snapping of Ratchet's neck as he turned to study that part of the bar.

Even through the mass of gamboling Cybertronians, he could see her.

And feel a healthy twinge of jealousy.

Sitting next to her, so close that Ratchet would be hard-pressed to intentionally lose another J-spanner, was a red and blue mech, possibly a soldier given the nature of his armaments. It was clear through his mannerisms-the broad, sweeping arm gestures, cap flaring, and chassis posturing-that he was trying to win her affection.

Why Ratchet hadn't foreseen this possibility was obvious-he had been focusing so much on Io and all of the possible conversations, responses and outcomes of their time together tonight-but it should have been expected, another problem that effectively made an already delicate situation more tenuous.

Ratchet started to add it to the growing pile of his internal maunderings, beginning the permutations of possible outcomes and dwindling chances of success, but the look on Io's face made him stop.

All the while the young mech primped and preened, Io absently swirled her drink with an unconscious claw. And if that wasn't enough to express her utter disinterest, optics that seemed fixed on a ceiling blemish said that she would much rather be listening to one of Crossarm's motivational speeches than some heavily overedited "wing-flaring."

"Yeah, that mech's been on her since she sat down." Blaster commented from his perch where he sat momentarily forgotten. "I'll tell you one thing, your shield has the patience of a Prime. I'd have probably punched his lights out by now."

Ratchet couldn't help but smile at his friend's comment. Though he would never admit it, he had entertained the same notion. When he had first noticed Io's…companion, his processor was seized with the sudden desire to wipe the smirk from the mech's face-plate with a well-placed right hook.

It would have made Io laugh… but it would also have undoubtedly ruined any chance they might have had for friendly conversation, what with Rocky gunning for his energon.

Ratchet pursed his lips, contemplatively.

What could he do to "win" his shield's attention without provoking the young mech?

Scanning the rest of the bar, he watched as two laughing mechs rose slowly to their trods and staggered toward the door, singing a bawdy tune at the top of their voice boxes. Their abandoned table was positioned in such a way that if Io lowered her head, anyone sitting there would be directly in her line of sight.

The old medic smirked.

As he started toward the table, he heard Blaster chuckle above him. "Got a plan, have you? I'll keep and optic out; see how things materialize…or don't." Ratchet swatted at the avatar once again, invoking yet another mocking laugh from his friend as he willed his avatar to safety. "Later Ratchet." He called out even as he landed on the shoulder of an unsuspecting triple-changer.

As Ratchet sat down, he was greeted by one of the bar's waitresses, a young, unfamiliar femme with large, bright optics and wheeled trods. "How's it going tonight, _se'vei_?" She said cheerily as she cleared away a veritable army of empty energon cubes.

Suppressing a sigh, Ratchet shook his head. "Fine, I guess." He muttered even as his processor stumbled over her use of the word "_se'vei_," or "antiquated one."

_Do I really look that old_? He thought, stifling yet another sigh... and yet another stab to his already deflated pride.

"So, what would you like to start with tonight?" The waitress asked proffering a small, rectangular device, a genetic scanner, in her outstretched hand.

"_Visco_, if you wouldn't mind." Ratchet replied placing his index finger within a small depression atop the box. He felt a sharp, but short-lived, stab of pain, as the device pierced his mesh to collect a tiny sample of energon.

The practice of tying energon use to the genetic code of the individual was realized near the start of the war as an efficient means of rationing what could only become a precious and rare commodity. The Autobots took this a step further, especially as the war got closer to Iacon, allotting to each 'Bot only that which was essential and making recreational use tied to performance. For every eight solar cycles of productive work, one earned the right to consume 1/35 of a _nar_ of energon above and beyond one's basic allotment, zealously controlled by a database housed in the Hall of Records.

It was all routine, especially in an establishment of this size and popularity, and the waitress waited patiently for a response from the city's database, glancing around the bar and trying not to make Ratchet feel uncomfortable. At the confirming beep from the scanner, she glanced down.

And stared at the numbers on the tiny holo-screen with wide, disbelieving optics. "Y-you…" She looked up at Ratchet with a look that seemed to flutter between shock and amazement. "When was the last time you…?"

"A while." The medic finished with a smile.

"I'd say," was her somewhat flummoxed response. "And you…?"

"Would like that to end tonight."

Ratchet continued to smile, even as he turned and considered Io. Though her head was still cocked ceiling-ward, she had since turned her optics and was now considering the red and blue soldier with a look that the old medic could only describe as scarily contemplative, as if she were weighing the odds of physical retaliation against a future career in the medical field.

"I see," he heard the femme say.

"If you don't mind, could you deduct her drinks from my account?" Ratchet gestured toward Io, and the wheeled femme pivoted slightly on her trods so that she could note the location of the medic's benefactor.

"You old bots don't waste any time, do you?" She giggled.

Ratchet directed a poisonous glare over his shoulder, eliciting another chuckle from the waitress, even as she sped off toward the bar to fill his drink order.

_For Primus' sake_! The old medic sighed heavily, and covered his face-plate with his hand, his head shaking slowly, disapprovingly. _That is just what I need. What am I doing here_?

He had no answer nor had he looked up by the time the waitress had returned, stopping only long enough to place his drink on the table, but as he felt her speed away he couldn't help but follow her progress.

As the waitress stopped by her table, Io turned her head and considered the femme with a curious-and seemingly thankful-smile. Anything, it would seem, to distract her from the antics of her, now very much, inebriated companion.

Ratchet couldn't exactly hear what was being said, but he knew the moment the waitress laid out his intentions, because Io's attention turned slowly toward him, her expression a beautiful fusion of curiosity and confusion.

As she took in her anonymous benefactor, her optics widened to their limits and her mouth opened in apparent shock.

Despite the fluttering in his spark, Ratchet managed a smile and a slight wave.

Her response was instantaneous. Rising to her trods, she started toward him, simply got up, leaving behind her nearly finished drink and wannabe-suitor almost as if she had forgotten their collective existence. Slipping silently through the crowd-unnoticed by the red and blue mech, who kept preening, oblivious-her optics never wavered, though her lips were quick to abandon their earlier dismay, stretching into an ever widening smile as she drew closer to her charge.

"Please tell me that it's you-I mean really you-and not just some figment of my imagination." Io managed, once she was in sound-shot. Then, in a motion that was as quick as it was unexpected, the femme reached forward and tugged forcefully on both of his chevrons.

"Ow!" Ratchet exclaimed with a gruff chuckle. Gently, he captured her hands, lest she attempt to torment some other component of his anatomy. "You know, you could have just asked." Though his comment came off harsher than intended, he couldn't help but smile down at her.

Io returned the expression. "So, what changed your mind?"

Ratchet's right shoulder cap jerked, involuntarily. "Just…er…well…" His voice faltered and, dropping one of her hands, he rubbed the back of his neck. "I…had a change of spark is all."

Io cocked a questioning brow-ridge, though she didn't pursue the matter any further. Instead, she shrugged her nacelles and smirked back at him in a way that was as playful as it was analytical. "Well, whatever the reason..." She said after a moment. "I'm glad you're here."

"W-wait…y-you…you're really…?"

Adjusting her wings, the femme and sat down next to Ratchet and met his gaze; her smirk rapidly giving way to an interested smile. "Yes."

Ratchet stared at her for a moment, confused. "If I might ask…" he began after a few failed starts. "Why?"

Io cocked her head and flashed him with a look that seemed to suggest amusement. "Well, for starters, you saved me from a long, awkward evening with Mr. Congeniality over there." She jerked her thumb in the direction of her former table-mate.

Ratchet raised his optics to follow her gesture, only to discover that the red-and-blue mech was still seated where Io had left him…

And was glaring daggers at the two of them, his hand clenched tightly around the remnants of an energon cube. Realization dawning, the spurned suitor had obviously identified what had diverted the attentions of his charms... and wasn't pleased in the slightest.

"He's furious, isn't he?" Io's voice drew Ratchet's attention, and he couldn't help but smile at her tone.

"Just a bit."

"He'll get over it…" A devilish smirk claimed her face-plate. "If he knows what's good for him."

Ratchet's smile broadened and eventually he couldn't help but chuckle. Not that he found her comment amusing, but rather because he knew that she was more than capable of delivering on the subtle threat.

"So, he was that annoying, was he?"

Io's expression darkened, a subtle and short-lived expression, replaced quickly as it was by one of her trademark smirks. "Yeah…" she said finally in a tone that seemed incongruous with her expression. "He was."

Ratchet couldn't help but raise a curious eyebrow at what Io had left unspoken-the old medic couldn't conceive of anything that Mr. Red and Blue could have done or said to her that she wouldn't have just shrugged off the same as she did everything else-but, as she became suddenly cheerful, looking up at him with a broad smile and a comment of "Anyway, enough of that," he didn't really have any space left in his madly spinning processors to give it any further mind.

Especially because the femme met his gaze and touched his bracer in the same playful manner as she did back in his lab." There are so many things that I want to ask you, I'm not quite sure where to start."

Ratchet smiled at her enthusiasm and took a tentative sip of his beverage.

_Visco_ was a unique blending of palladium and chlorine-laced energon with _ori_, a synthetic polyolester. As the concoction was an in-house recipe, the palladium content tended to vary with the whims of the creator, and as such should always be taken in moderation when first starting out, lest one find themselves intoxicated beyond all reason.

A quick chemical analysis told him that this batch was stronger than anything he had ever consumed. He would have to take it slow lest he add intoxication to the awkwardness.

"So, where to begin…" Io mused thoughtfully, claws tapping at his bracer.

The sprightly waitress appeared for a brief moment to drop off a fresh cube for Io.

Ratchet considered her drink with a raised brow ridge. "What is that?" he wondered, his lip curling at the viscous, blue-gray fluid occupying the container.

"_Ven'sle_." She replied with a smirk.

Ratchet's optics widened in surprise and revulsion. _Ven'sle_ was little more than refined factory waste. Hardly a proper beverage, it was developed eons ago by low-caste laborers as a cheap alternative to energon-based intoxicants. "You can actually drink that stuff?"

She nodded, brought the cube to her lips and drained a small sample. "I developed quite the taste for it in Kaon." She elaborated, meeting her mentor's still-off put stare. "It hardly fazes me anymore."

Curled lip turning into a smile, he couldn't help but reply with an astonished chuckle. "You're just full of surprises."

Io smirked; her claws resumed their thoughtful tapping. "I might say the same thing about you. After all…" her smirk deepened. "_Tre'strixini'th'a'an_, changing one's caste standing without the blessings of the council, is quite the felony. Or, well…" She paused and shrugged. "At least it was until the war started."

He opened his mouth to answer her-it wasn't something he would have chosen to discuss, and certainly not as a first salvo into a night of revelations, but they had to start somewhere.

"And you'll have to tell me how you managed to store up fifty stellar cycles worth of recreational energon."

* * *

Ratchet and Io talked the entire evening.

They talked so long that many patrons either left of their own accord or were thrown out on their sorry, inebriated afts by an all-too-happy Rocky-with much resistance against enthusiastically draconian resolve of course. They talked long enough that even Rocky sat down at the bar and nursed a cube of what Io could only presume was _ven'sle_-based on the constant scowl he directed at everyone-as the flow of new patrons died down to a trickle.

Oh, there were quite a few 'Bots still in the bar, but only the hard types, the ones that knew how to control their energon consumption, measuring their intoxication throughout the night, always looking like they were still at their peak of battle-readiness and eyeing the remaining patrons as if in the hopes that someone would start some real trouble. Io knew their kind-Wreckers, mainly, along with a healthy dose of free-agents, frontline singletons, and deep-cover soldiers, "dregs" as they were known to the social elite. Like Ratchet, they too, were probably making good on stored energon credits, coming in for one last "hurrah" before being sent back out to the front-lines.

She had worked with their kind all too frequently before-oh, true, they wore a different insignia and had more overt tendencies toward homicide-and she could easily pick them out of a crowd by their all-too-perfect pretense of being completely at ease. In this time of constant hostilities, no one could be that perfectly uncaring-not even the overenergized ones-unless one believed themselves above such worry. She didn't mind them, of course, as they were essential to the propagation of the war, but neither did she need to actively seek out their company. They were the types that were best appreciated from afar but never approached.

As such, she made sure never to make eye contact with any of them.

A sudden cascade of noise and a string of colorful invectives effectively snapped the femme from her musings. A curious smile flittered across her lips as she turned to consider the source of the outburst, the red-and-white medic at her side.

Apparently, Ratchet had used the brief pause in their conversation to build a tower using the host of empty energon cubes that he had amassed throughout the evening.

The key word being "had."

Clearly he had attempted too lofty of a goal, literally and figuratively, and the tower had collapsed. This setback didn't deter the mech from his goal, however, and he quickly gathered up the fallen cubes so that he could start anew. One cube at a time, each placed with such meticulous care that one would think that they were the only things on Cybertron that mattered, Ratchet slowly rebuilt his obelisk of overindulgence.

Just as he was setting the last cube, a random passer-by nudged the table, causing the tower to sway.

Immediately-and with a surprising amount of speed, given the degree of his intoxication-Ratchet wrapped his arms protectively about the building, using his bracers to steady and also nudge the wobbling cubes back into their previous alignment. Muttering to himself-or to the tower, she couldn't tell-he slowly removed his limbs. Once certain that the tower could stand on his own, he reached for the final cube and with a self-satisfying smirk, placed it atop the pile.

"HA!" He exclaimed, even as he leaned back so that he could study his handiwork from a distance.

Io's smile broadened.

Though she had known Ratchet for two and a half stellar cycles, their time together tonight made it quite obvious that there was a lot more to his personality than he let on. While most 'Bots knew him as a humorless workaholic, content to tear down those that he considered intellectually inferior, her conversations with him had revealed a softer, more sensitive side.

She had seen a small snippet of that persona after their time in Gorn Station, in the gentleness of his touch as he mended her arm, and again in the tone of his voice when he explained his actions to her the following solar cycle. But this...

This was humorously neurotic.

"We need to get more..." Ratchet said, and her thoughts crashed once again.

"More?" She said with a laugh, even as she met his gaze. "How could you possibly want more energon? I think you've out-imbibed everyone in here, including me, and that's saying something."

The medic chuckled and waived his hand dismissively. "You misunderstand. I don't want more energon, necessarily, just the cubes. If I add a few more here," He gestured at the base of the tower. "I can make it look like the Tower of Pion."

Io blinked rapidly at his response, then at the construction-only he could drink nearly two stellar cycles of energon rations and still have the intellectual fortitude to mimic a cultural landmark-then laughed again. "You're something, you know that?"

"I suppose..." He replied with a smirk. Then, all in the space of an astrosecond, his expression brightened and patted her hand excitedly. "Oh! Do you think the bartender would give me some empty cubes if I asked nicely?"

The femme stared at him for a moment with a puzzled smile. Then, laughing once again, she shrugged her nacelles and shook her head. "I'm...sure she would," She managed, finally. "But you'll need to explain what you need them for, of course."

"Of course!" Ratchet said, as if such a proposition was requisite to a successful transaction. Optics beaming brightly behind a wide smile, he clapped her shoulder affectionately before rising to his trods. As he claimed his full posture, he wobbled unsteadily. Raising his bracers for balance, he paused, leaned forward a bit, then started determinedly toward the bar.

Io watched his departure with a curious optic.

True, she always watched him wherever he went-his body structure was a unique blending of bulk without excessive brawn, the kind of form that enabled large feats of strength such as carrying 'Bots from the field while at the same time outfitted for the delicate work of the operating room-but never before had she seen such a noticeable spring in his step.

It was the kind of pep she used to see in newly promoted Decepticon soldiers...or a sparkling with a new toy.

The femme smiled at the thought and drained the last bit of _ven'sle_ from her cube. Setting the empty vessel next to Ratchet's tower so that he could make use of it upon his return, she turned her head so that she could observe his progress.

As she watched him explain his request to the stocky femme behind the bar-replete with expressive hand gestures...and, knowing him, explanations of load-bearing necessities, and descriptions of dimensional proportionality-Io couldn't help but sigh, contentedly, and lower her head so that her chin rested lightly on the back of her hands.

_No ill-intent with that one_... The femme thought.

Like most 'Bots "under the influence," Ratchet's lowered inhibitions made him an open book not only from an informational standpoint-as he had been more than willing to divulge some interesting tidbits from his youth-but from an emotional one. And everything she had seen of him fit on one gradational scale of innocence and naiveté.

It was often said that one could learn a lot about someone by the way that they behaved whilst over-energized. Were they a creep? Prevailing wisdom said "get them drunk and find out."

At this, Io's smile faltered.

Sadly, she had discovered this was more true about Autobots than Decepticons.

Decepticons were at least honest in their illicit dealings. They took what they wanted from whom they wanted, with no pretenses of civility or respect. Energon intoxication, therefore, revealed little about a particular 'Con's personality. If anything, it simply increased the number of dealings, or made one prone to act in a manner that was not conducive to longevity.

The Autobots, as a more reserved faction, however, acted more counter-typically when over-energized. Instead of the stalwart, peace-loving, law-abiding, bastions of good as sung about in the _Histories of the Great War_, she had found that some Autobots could be just as mischievous, malignant, and maladjusted as the Decepticons. They just hid it better until their energon levels exceeded recommended limits.

Add to this the exotic tendencies and fantastical license like pleasure tech or chems that many Decepticon turn-coats had brought with them and it created the perfect breeding ground for the erosion of moral fiber and emergence of behavior previously done in secret. In fact, as they were eagerly snapped up by 'Bots looking for a brief reprieve from reality, and as city leaders tended to turn a blind optic to these new vices, lauding instead the "new recruits" as shining examples of the eventual Autobot victory, Io believed it was only a matter of time before the "good side" had a real problem on their hands.

In just the latter half of this _orn_ she had had no fewer than three propositions asking boldly about things that would have been viewed as corporal offenses not two stellar cycles previously, and yet now was considered nothing more than the "harmless antics of the depressed masses searching for a world free from the specter of war."

Io sighed heavily as if at an unpleasant memory, then shook her head to force herself to refocus.

Ratchet had clearly succeeded in persuading the bartender to part with a few empty cubes. He had since stopped to converse with the entertainment, a red and yellow Autobot mech who she knew to be named Blaster. Supposedly, he was one of Optimus Prime's lieutenants along with Prowl-the Autobot who spearheaded her post-defection interrogation-but she had never verified this information for herself. Sure, he was an attractive mech-his sleek helm and uniquely-styled body was quite captivating, especially considering how he managed to work the speakers and tables from his altmode into the lightly built _sokha'ath_ frame.

But, as time had shown, attractiveness and integrity seemed to be inversely related.

Another frown.

Over the general rumblings of the bar, she heard Ratchet's voice rise in a hearty laugh. The femme cocked her head quizzically at the sound-she had only ever heard him laugh once, and that after the pink oil prank when he had to administer his own antidote to a very scared and irate Crossarm-and watched with a steadily growing smile as her mentor came to life with a series of expressive arm movements that, after more careful consideration, might have been a prelude to some sort of event or contest.

Whatever it was, Blaster responded enthusiastically with a second series of motions that, though distinct from Ratchet's, were clearly meant to emulate the style that he had used.

The medic laughed again, shook his head, and set his prized cubes on the bar behind him. Then, after a brief pause-almost as if he were collecting his thoughts-her mentor, the irascible Doctor Ratchet, began to dance.

The mech started with a sweeping arm motion that, through deliberate, conscious control, seemed to transition fluidly to into two distinct motions. The first passing from his outstretched hand to his right leg, past his knee-pikes and into his trod, which slid smoothly backwards across the floor. The second, rising upward through his bracer, where it split, again: his right shoulder cap flaring and flexing mercurially, at the same instant that the various plates and slats of his chassis arched, resulting in a wonderfully graceful bow. At the base of the bow, the motion reversed at the grill and seamlessly transitioned into at least ten distinct, yet fluid movements that not only allowed the mech to reclaim his full posture, but pulled him smoothly back across the floor until he stood facing a contemplative Blaster.

It was like she was watching a wave propagate across the Sea of Rust, an concussive roll generated by an Fission Bomb, radiating outward for kliks before rarefaction brought it crashing destructively back to the center.

The musician seemed to take all of this in for a moment before responding with his own series of gestures and motions that, to her untrained opitcs-seemed to capture the unique style of the dance without directly copying Ratchet move-for-move.

The old medic watched his friend with a calculating optic and stark, blank expression, his focus-face-something that couldn't quite qualify as a scowl, but stern enough to be intimidating to anyone who didn't know him. After a few more moments of careful consideration, Ratchet stopped the mech with a quick, sideways chopping gesture. He then began to correct Blaster, replaying his improvised moves with a grace and skill that not only belied his age, but clearly out-performed the young musician by several orders of magnitude.

Io found herself mesmerized by the interchange. Clearly an archaic form of dance, she had never seen anything even remotely like it either in Nova Cronum, nor while shackled to the Decepticons. Granted her former comrades' conception of dancing seemed more geared to pounding the brainpan of anything that came within reach, so it was easy to dismiss, but this, this was beautiful in a way that she couldn't quite place, and seeing Ratchet's body move in such a sinuous and controlled manner was... enthralling.

The femme smiled as warm energon suffused her face-plate.

It wasn't the first time she had entertained such feelings...or the thoughts of partnership that inevitably surrounded them. She and Ratchet had grown very close these past few _orns,_ and though she had originally been hesitant about broaching the subject with him, their time here tonight-especially the fact that he left behind his work at the clinic to meet her here-had effectively removed any and all reservations.

Of all bots, he seemed like someone that she could truly trust, who wouldn't just use her to whatever end and discard her afterwards, like a useless piece of scrap-metal.

He wasn't a Decepticon, assuredly, but neither was he truly an Autobot new or otherwise.

He was, quite simply: Old, crotchety, lovely, unique Ratchet.

At least that was her hope. And considering how everyone in Iacon seemed to hate her for her transgressions, or as many of them only saw her through the tainted lens erected by her previous mentor, this hope of actually being wanted and needed, a being in a unique position loving and being loved by a truly unique being...was all that she really had to live for.

And that was, she realized, was the hardest to admit, even to herself. It was what she had been stumbling over since he had decided to defect in the first.

She had no home, no family.

She fit in nowhere.

She hated the Decepticons for what they had done to her home and yet many of the Autobots hated her for what they perceived she had done to theirs. It was, as Dreadwing, her former commander had once said-albeit with a decidedly different intention-a "perfectly pitiful and hopeless position". True, she had made some tolerant acquaintances, but even her good rapport with Interlink couldn't take the place of the long-term friends that had perished in the siege of Nova Cronum.

In short, she had no one in which to truly confide. She was alone, alienated, probably more so than anyone else in Iacon, save for Ratchet.

_Ratchet..._

Her optics sought out his familiar form at the bar, and she couldn't help but smile as she watched him lightly grab Blaster's tablet-like bracer so as to physically guide him through some sort of complicated movement.

Seeing Ratchet in such rare form only solidified something that she had been wondering about for the entire duration of their relationship: That all of the spark-rending circumstances and frustrations of his youth combined with the feelings of loss that he still felt for Gamma had forced him to create his gruff persona. A combination of intensity of presence and a dry wit that he wielded like a shield effectively drove people away from him, all so that he would never again be confronted with the pain of another loss.

That wasn't to say that he didn't have any friends. No, it was clear from the manner of his interactions with Blaster here at the bar and with others, such as Triage and Interlink, that they meant more to him than just any passer-bot.

But there was a limit to how involved he allowed himself to become. For example, though Ratchet was the most compassionate 'Bot she had ever met, by effectively secluding himself in his lab for fifty stellar cycles and seemingly being content with that, there was little likelihood that anyone could ever see that side of him, thus negating the possibility of a partnership.

It was the perfect combination of behaviors to ensure minimal uncontrolled emotional responses. In short, he was perfectly lonely except when he wanted to break the façade, and, given his tendency to reclusiveness, it was something he did rarely.

The femme's spark tightened within her chest and her brow ridges drooped slightly.

_I wonder if he set a limit for me_? The thought was in her processor before she knew it, but she had little time to consider.

"Hey, there, sweetspark." A familiar voice purred over her shoulder. Thoughts crashing for a third time in as many cycles, Io turned her head and considered Foray-a blue and red Elite Guardsman-over her shoulder.

Sighing, she broke his gaze.

To say that Foray was obnoxious would have been an understatement: The mech was down-right boorish. Claiming her as his femme the moment she had ventured into the bar, his continued presence even after she had told him to get lost, his banal assumption that she would be willing to "service" him...

She shook her head, banishing the thought before she could finish it.

That part of her life was over.

She had served her time with the 'Cons, and she swore that she would never again take up her former "profession."

Not for Foray.

Not for anyone...not even Ratchet; though the femme was hard-pressed to believe that the old mech would actually ask such a thing of her. In fact, had the situation been any different, she might have actually laughed at the thought. Ratchet was perhaps, the most decent 'Bot that she had ever met; naive to be sure, but respectful of her and her privacy. Heck, even two years later, it was clear that he still had not read her personnel file.

Granted, part of her was grateful that he hadn't, but at the same time, she couldn't help but feel that if their relationship progressed any further, that he might come to resent her for withholding certain...sensitive information.

The femme frowned and reconsidered her mentor at the bar, her gaze distant.

The thought of Ratchet actually hating her-for past events that she, at the time, was powerless to prevent-caused her spark to twist painfully.

"Hello?" Foray interjected, culling her thoughts yet again.

"_What do you want?_" She growled with a bit more bite than she truly intended. Complementing her tone, her fingers tightened and her claws made a sharp scraping noise as they were dragged along the textured metal of her table.

"Woah, what's with the attitude?" The soldier chuckled, raising his hands disarmingly. "You ran off on me, remember?"

Io shook her head and pinched the bridge of her chevrons with her hand. "Look," she began flatly, meeting is gaze after short pause. "I don't know what it is that you think you're going to get out of me, or what slag-poor information you may have come by regarding any of my professions, past or present, but as I told you before: I am _not_ interested."

The mech's expression darkened, and his lips pursed in annoyance. "Is that so?" He drawled, crossing his large, wheeled arms. After a thoughtful pause, he jerked his thumb toward the bar. "Look, I don't know what the old 'Bot's paying you, but I'll triple it."

Io responded with claws across a startled Foray's face. As he stumbled backward, surprise and rage plain in his optics, Io couldn't help but feel similarly surprised but her anger was borne out of a need to not only erase the truth at what he had asked, but to erase the realization that such an idea had permeated even one of the elite guard.

Further, the knowledge that her actions would have serious repercussions-Autobots rarely assaulted each other in anger or hate and their punishment was swift and severe, but she could only imagine how they would respond to a "reformed" Decepticon attacking an elite guardsman-prompted her to follow through with her advance, a growl flowing through the bar as she repeatedly struck him on any exposed mesh.

_If I am going to burn for this_, she thought, _then they are going to learn what not to say_.

Oh, she had no intentions of lethality, but she had seen that look in his optic that said he needed a lasting lesson in proper decorum.

As the sounds of their altercation spread throughout the bar, 'Bots clamored to trod to see just what-in-the-slag was going on. Most regarded her open-mouthed as if in complete disbelief that a member of the elite guard was so engaged and seemingly losing, while others considered her thoughtfully, as if wondering if she really was a Decepticon at spark and chose at this moment to show her true colors.

The last two remaining "tolerated" Decepticons made a quiet exit out of the bar, their minders completely ignorant as they focused intently on the actions of the tiny femme.

Of course, all this was lost to her as her attentions were all on her slag-begotten "'Bot-friend."

Finally coming to his senses-or battle-senses overcoming his surprise-Io's claws deflected off of his right bracer and she was forced to dodge a fist.

_Slag, he's fast!_

And as her conscious mind took hold of her, she couldn't help but realize just how big he was. It wouldn't have stopped her, but was something to note. He might not have been as large as Ratchet, but he was easily as wide as Triage, and she could imagine if one of those fists connected, she would certainly feel it.

Coming in low to hit him mid-section, she was surprised when caught her about the neck and lifted her off her trods.

True, she expected retaliation, but she didn't expect to be so easily defeated.

Struggling against his iron grip and lashing out at everything-his arm and faceplate...she was not going down without a fight-she waited for the final blow to fall.

_What will Ratchet say_, she thought suddenly, one of those humorous, incongruous thoughts borne out of adversity. Unfortunately, it was immediately followed with the more horrifying thought of _I hope he doesn't get involved_. If Foray could take her out this easily, Ratchet wouldn't stand much of a chance.

"I have to hand it to 'ya: you've got a lot of spark for a _thost_," Foray growled, energon dripping from his jaw... and seemingly a hundred other places. They were mostly superficial cuts, lacerations of the mesh, but they looked like the Pit of Kaon and they certainly didn't make him happy. In fact, his expression said he was going to enjoy this, his arrogance at triumphing over one of her kind the same she'd seen on many a 'Bot's face as they defeated a 'Con, but more personal, glorying in showing all of Cybertron how little value she actually had.

The soldier raised his clenched fist and grinned.

But the steel-gray fist attached to a large, red and white blurr ruined the ambiance.


	12. Chapter 11: Repercussions

And with this chapter we have reached the point where the story is still being written, so story updates will not be as common as they once were. My apologies, but my primary occupation (teaching) takes up a lot of my time, leaving me to work in short snippets here and there. I'm really going to push to finish this fic by the end of summer, though. :D Wish me luck.

Thanks, also, for all of the views and reviews. I'm glad that people are enjoying this story, and I promise that this next chapter will make you laugh. 10 and 11 were meant to be comical and silly, as the rest of the story is decidedly not. So, here we are! Enjoy!

* * *

Tap.

"...three heavily damaged energon tanks, and the _ven'sle_ distillery will be inoperable until they can import another _sc'eth_ from Kalis. Fortunately only the dregs will give a slag about that.

Tap.

"...a hole in the north wall big enough for an entire platoon of wreckers...

Tap.

"...forty-three shattered tables, including one that was deemed unrecoverable by the maintenance team as it somehow found its way _under_ the car in the drop shaft...and that doesn't even include the entire bar which somehow ended up at the bottom of the oil fountain in Sub-Level Seven!"

BANG!

Io straightened her posture and flexed her nacelles out of startlement at the loud clatter that Crossarm's data-pad made as it scuttled across the surface of his desk. Optics blinking rapidly for a few frantic moments as she forced her processor to re-focus, she resisted the urge to track her agitated CO, instead masking her inattention behind a steely, blank facade.

This wasn't the first time she had been verbally disciplined as an Autobot-or as a Decepticon, for that matter. Granted, "verbal" discipline among the 'Cons basically amounted to assault with some colorful language thrown in for good measure.

In either case, she knew better than to do anything other than stare past her CO, arms firmly at her sides, and wings lowered as a sign of submission, but also to convey willingness toward redemption.

And given Crossarm's penchant for the dramatic, remaining quiet and unobtrusive was the most she could do to assuage his anger. Anything else would just provoke him further, making their inevitable punishment all the more severe.

The jet paced in front of them for several, silent moments; his expression dark and focused. Finally, he paused before Ratchet, and all but shouted. "I don't know how _you_ got into such a sorry state," with a wild hand gesture, he indicated all of the dents, dings, and lacerations marring Ratchet's normally well-kept finish-"battle scars" from his involvement in the bar fight. "But considering the sheer magnitude of the damage that was done to one of the oldest establishments in Iacon..." he fixed the medic with a nearly apoplectic glare. "_I don't care_."

Flaring his wings, suddenly, Crossarm leaned in closer. "Do you have any idea how this makes the clinic look? How it makes _me_ look!? You have not only disgraced this institution, but, as you are under my charge-something you seem to increasingly forget-you have disgraced me!"  
Unconsciously, Io's fists clenched.

Crossarm should have been screaming at her. After all, she was the one who attacked Foray. Ratchet had only gotten involved because of her. But either because Ratchet was her immediate boss and thus was deemed the more responsible party or because Crossarm could finally get out his latent aggression at the larger mech, her charge was forced to bear the brunt of it.

Unfortunately-well, depending on the point of view-the effect of the lecture was lost on both dressed-down 'Bots, and in Ratchet's state, this only threatened to make the situation worse. Crossarm's smaller stature made him look a sparkling admonishing its former... and it was obvious he was enjoying the tirade too much to be taken seriously.

It wasn't every day, after all, that he had the opportunity to tear down one of the most highly-regarded 'Bots at the clinic _and_ make himself seem authoritative in front of her.

But their lack of response didn't deter Crossarm-he would flare his wings at a post if he could convince himself it felt threatened by his position-and he worked himself into rare form, devising all manner of punishments and situations in which Ratchet-and Io, but of course he never really seemed to include her-might find himself for his indiscretions.

Io all but stopped listening after just a few astroseconds, especially when her CO made some comment about Ratchet tidying the Sea of Rust in a tone that said he was half-serious if he could just convince Optimus to allow it. Which of course seemed highly probable as he described the Prime as one would an old war "buddy," in a tone that said he was decidedly sure Optimus would lay down his spark for the small aerial-Bot if it would save him the slightest discomfort.

True, she didn't completely turn off her audio receptors, and bits and fragments of his exposition reached her from time to time-she recalled him lamenting the loss of one of the last remaining bottles of _jorisit_-but in the mind-numbing interlude that could easily last an _orn_ she decided it was best she pay attention to who truly mattered.

Ratchet.

The old medic stood at attention, though his posture was all wrong; the byproduct of a horrifying injury to his entire left side. But even as he swayed on unsteady trods, and even as his optics stared, unfocused, at an invisible spot on the wall behind their angry, preening CO, a bemused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he found Crossarm's pontificating as fake and as funny as she did.

A brief smile visited her lips.

Under normal circumstances, Ratchet was about as expressive as a sheet of aluminum. Seeing him so laid-back, and seemingly at ease with the severity of his "transgression" was delightfully... out of character.

Io's spark fluttered pleasantly at the thought, and her smile deepened.

"We are supposed to function as a unit!" Crossarm continued, snapping Io away from her thoughts. He seemed oblivious to her inattention and, also, to the subtle smirk that was still trying to claim Ratchet's face. Spinning smartly on his trods, the jet resumed his agitated pacing. "Such disruptive behavior is not at all conducive to teamwork, to harmony!"

He waggled a finger excitedly at nothing.

Io rolled her optics, and as Crossarm paused in front of the large, panoramic window that looked out over Iacon, the former 'Con turned her head so that she could scrutinize the more severe damage along Ratchet's side.

The bright lights evidenced a grisly picture.

Smaller injures aside, the beautifully curved, sidereal plating under his arm had been severely inverted, and in some cases, had actually punctured the confining armor of his chassis. And as Io looked on, alarmed, fresh energon seeped from the wound in a inconsistent but significant stream, plopping against the floor where it had formed a large puddle. The loss-though not lethal-was sufficient, and would have to be addressed soon.

*Ratchet?* Io memed via his private com-link frequency.

The large mech swayed dramatically on his trods, his optics darting wildly around the room as he searched for the mysterious source of the voice. Then, after an astrosecond of consideration, he turned and fixed her with a bright, aquamarine stare. *Io?* He smiled. *Hey! What's up?* His thought "voice" sounded giddy.

*You're leaking. Baddly.*

*What? Really?* The seasoned medic looked down, first at his right side, then, after a quick shake of his head, he focused on his left. *Oh, would you look at that...* He mused, and a light chuckle drifted through their link to dance merrily in the back of her head. Then, for reasons that Io could only blame on his overenergized state, Ratchet finished his comment out loud. "A present from Old Rocky if I must..."

"Are you even listening to me!?" Crossarm roared.

Io snapped immediately to attention. Ratchet on the other hand, was a little delayed in his reaction. His posture necessitated an about-face unleashing a full-body sway replete with raised arms for balance, knocking a container of energon goodies off of the CO's desk and requiring a two-step lurch to get back into position. Several of the goodies crunched under his trods, but he seemed not to notice.

Crossarm, on the other hand, become even more irate if that were possible and, stalking menacingly across the room so that he could glare up at his underling, he lowered is wings into a threat position. "So, insubordination is the name of today's game, is it?" He growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Crunch.

Crossarm grimaced even harder and Io was surprised he didn't shatter his jaw.

"I would have thought someone like you, Doctor 'holier-than-thou-because-I'm-a-compendium-of-all- knowledge' would be above such antics... For such a... 'well-respected'..." Crossarm's voice faded to silence as an unusual sound caught his audio receptors.

Io's optics widened-she had heard it also-and she turned so that she could gape up at her mentor in shock.

For the second time this evening, Ratchet had laughed aloud.

Crossarm's reaction was instantaneous. "So you think this is funny!?" he roared. He stood up on the tips of his trods and attempted to look Ratchet in the face, but due to his smaller stature, had to settle with yelling at Ratchet's chin-plate. While sufficient in Crossarm's optics, it only served to ruin the effect and prompt the red-and-white medic to another bout of bemused chuckling. "You dare mock a superior officer!?"

Another chuckle.

Crossarm gritted his dental plates; his fists clenched tightly. "Let's see if you're still laughing after a tour of energon tank duty. All _fifty_ of them."

Ratchet's laughter faltered for a moment, as if part of him realized the severity of his punishment. But, this pause was momentary, and within a few astroseconds the seasoned medic was back to chuckling to himself like an over-energized sparkling after their first visit to Maccadams.

Io's spark leapt into her oral vent. Cleaning out one energon tank was bad enough, but fifty? Such a thing would take _orns_.

Her chest tightened at the thought of being separated from her mentor for that long, but what could she do or say that would change Crossarm's mind?

Of course her default thought, even after fifty stellar cycles as an Autobot, was to use her feminine wiles to persuade the young mech to either abandon the punishment altogether, or to at least convince him to reduce the sentence, but after glancing quickly at Ratchet, the thought stalled.

First, toying with Crossarm's emotions would have been grossly inappropriate given all that Ratchet had done for her, but as it was because of hints of this very action that the fight had started in the first place, such would be the height of hypocrisy-especially if Ratchet ever found out.

Secondly, no matter how much she wanted to save him from an incredibly excessive and tedious assignment, she just couldn't will herself to get close to Crossarm, let alone touch him. At even the brief entertainment of the notion, a strange sort of disquiet filled her spark and, concomitantly, a feeling of physical illness or nausea gripped her internals.

_Odd..._ The femme mused. _That's never happened before._

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she reconsidered the two mechs. Ratchet was still giddy and non-compliant, and Crossarm-having since returned to his flats-was thoughtfully tapping at his chin, almost as if he were trying to work out the logistics of relocating the obstinate mech to the basement.

And whether he should send Ratchet to the tanks straight away.

Her processor whirred thoughtfully. She would have to approach the situation like an Autobot: with tact and finesse. She may not be able to persuade Crossarm to abandon the punishment, but the least she could do was try to buy Ratchet enough time to process the extra energon in his system, and to administer some basic first aid.

Generating a bit of static with her voice box to get the jet's attention, she said. "Crossarm, Sir?"

The clinic's HMO turned his head and considered Io with a look of surprise. Granted, it was clear from the low angle of his wings that he was still "angry"-there was no getting around that, not when Ratchet was completely indifferent to his authority-but he was clearly intrigued by her tone. She had never called him "sir" or verbally admitted this same authority, and because considering her and not the situation seemed a welcomed way to focus his attentions, he eagerly responded. "Yes?"

"Sir, I'm afraid I must protest your decision."

The blue jet cocked his head in a way that was oddly reminiscent of her usual mannerisms. His brow ridges narrowed slightly, though he seemed more amused by her statement than angry. "For what reason?"

Io straightened her posture to fight the sudden fluttering in her energon cistern. "Ratchet drank nearly two stellar cycles worth of recreational energon at the bar. In all honesty, putting him on energon tank duty, in this state, could be disastrous."

Crossarm clenched his fists and stomped one of his trods like a belligerent sparkling.

Crunch!

At the sound, the jet all but exploded. "I don't care if he drank the equivalent volume of all the clinic's oil baths in three cycles! He caused more damage to Mccadam's than if it was on the front lines at Praxus!" He fixed her with a stern, blue glare, optics flashing. "He must be punished and immediately!"

"But I'm just as culpable..." She began angrily, but was cut off by Ratchet who decided at that moment to launch into song. The words were foreign to her audio receptors-possibly middle Golden Age-but it had an interesting tone-in fact, it almost sounded like a lively pub song.

"See what I mean?" Io indicated the intoxicated mech with a dramatic wave of her hand.

Crossarm shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose-plate, and for a long moment he said nothing. When at last he spoke, it was as if he had composed himself and had replaced uncontrollable anger with the cool logic of an executioner.

"If I don't discipline him in some, obvious way, Optimus may get involved." Dropping his arms to his sides, he considered Io out the corner of his optic. "We're at war, and this is something that Optimus and his staff do...not...need...to...deal...with. "

He made sure to enunciate each word.

"In fact," he mused sardonically. "I don't think they would. Prowl would just deflect the issue to the disciplinary council, and if you've ever had to deal with that wreck, they would regard the whole incident as a grievous misuse of their time, and they may be tempted to do something drastic, like force him to go back to medical tech, or, when it dawns on them that we can't be without his services no matter how unfortunate such an absence would be on all of us..." The mech trailed off and a licentious smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth, replacing his cruel sneer. "They might even force me to reassign his shield."

Io's optics narrowed.

She could almost see the cogs turning in his processor. To someone with a clear-cut case of "small mech" syndrome, separating her from Ratchet would be a sure-fire way to proclaim his "dominance" over the older medic, where age and experience clearly couldn't compete. It was this very sort of objectification that the femme reviled, and she would sooner relegate herself to the Pit than find herself shackled to Crossarm as his "shield."

The same tidal wave of anger that had goaded her to violence at the bar threatened to break once again. Optics narrowing to slits, the femme opened her mouth to express her displeasure, only to find that she had been "beaten to the energon," as the saying went.

Ratchet, moving almost too quickly to be believed, reached forward, and snagged the slender, cobalt spire compromised the ventral surface of Crossarm's nose-plate. "I am Unicron, the chaos bringer!" He shouted happily and began pulling the fixture side to side, almost as if he were using a targeting stick to shoot down enemy aircraft.

"Oww! By Primus...ow! OWW!" Crossarm grabbed Ratchet's fingers and tried to pry them off of his helm. "Y-you'll pay for this...this...indignation!" Crossarm lashed out at Ratchet's bracer, but as his head was cocked at a weird angle, he had no leverage and managed only to leave a small dent.

This did nothing to deter the inebriated medic.

Side to side the Sergeant's head went, and after several oscillations coupled with futile attempts by Crossarm to dislodge the larger mech, the CO's voice actually switched from fury to alarm. Turning his head-as best as he was able, given the circumstances-he looked at Io, pleadingly. "Can you...OW! Can you stop him or something?" He yelped. "He's going to break it off!"

"Who painted Sunstreaker pink?" Ratchet demanded, giving the spire another hardy tug.

Io crossed her arms, and fixed her CO with a look that practically screamed "I told you so."

"Still want to put him on energon tank detail?" She asked softly, stepping forward so that she could meet the jet's furious but beseeching gaze.

"He's not getting out of this." Crossarm growled as much from discomfort as from the thought that Io was trying to get her friend's sentence commuted. "Especially not after this...OW! WILL YOU STOP TUGGING ON THAT!" He raged suddenly.

Io considered Ratchet through pinched optics. She couldn't help but worry about her mentor's well-being. Angering Crossarm like this was incredibly unwise, even if he couldn't help himself, and he would have to pay for this uninvited advance. As Crossarm was their CO whether they liked it or not-and whether Ratchet was inebriated or not-his actions could easily be interpreted as assault, no matter how embarrassing.

"I realize that," She replied softly. "But he needs some time to sober up."

As if to agree, Ratchet smiled and said. "Yes, Optimus, all of the energon cubes have been fired; it's only a matter of time before they commune with the Thirteen."

Crossarm's optics looked confused and, like Io standing next to him, his mouth stood agape for several long moments. Then, finally, the jet sighed. "And what, exactly, would you propose?" he asked, head still tilted at an odd angle.

"Three groons for detox and addressing his wounds." She pointed at the floor at the pool of energon that was steadily creeping toward the Sergeant's desk. "This may have something to do with his affected state."

Crossarm followed her finger and considered the energon that marred his floor. He shrugged his large shoulder-caps as if it was of only minor consequence. "Perhaps," he said indifferently. Turning his head, he studied her face for several long moments. There was a questioning look in his optics, almost as if he were wondering why she cared so much about Ratchet's well-being. No doubt he was still holding out hope that she would choose him as her partner. "Tsk, fine; three groons it is." He snipped. "But not one astrosecond more. And afterwards, I want him in the energon tanks until all of them are clean. And I don't mean tolerable, but assembly line new."

A relieved smile flexed Io's lips. "Thank you, sir." She replied with a slight incline of her head, gratitude clearly evident in her voice. "I really appreciate you doing this."

Crossarm's optics widened slightly, almost as if he was truly surprised by her tone. Then, after an astrosecond of contemplation, he smiled. "It's...no bother, really."

Sounding sincere, the situation may have been acceptable if she could forget Crossarm wasn't a creep... and wasn't standing with his head cocked at an odd angle, motion controlled by her charge's drunken nervous system.

Io briefly returned the expression before she turned her head to focus on her Mentor. She approached him slowly, arms outstretched. "Ratchet?"

The mech turned and considered her through distant optics. He swayed slightly on his trods, which resulted in another-yet seemingly, accidental-tug on Crossarm's spire.

"OW! Really!?" The jet protested, loudly.

After regaining his balance, Ratchet did his best to focus on Io's face-plate. A smile briefly entertained his lips as he continued to sway unsteadily. "Io?"

Io smiled and lightly touched his hand, the one that effectively immobilized their CO. "Can you do me a favor and let Crossarm go?" She spoke slowly and reassuringly, making sure to enunciate every word in a way that would hopefully penetrate the intoxicant-driven haze dulling Ratchet's sensibilities.

"No! My toy!" Ratchet recoiled from her touch the way someone might after touching something that was highly caustic. Doing so caused Crossarm to lurch forward suddenly, eliciting a string of flustered curse words from the jet's lips. "Grrr." He growled after the larger mech had stopped moving. "You are so going to regret this..."

Io narrowed her optics, squared her nacelles, and stomped after him. Backing him into a corner, she jabbed her clawed index finger at his medial plate. "If you don't drop him this instant, I'm going to file off your rivets the next time you recharge!"

Ratchet's optics widened, and he immediately released Crossarm's spire.

"And what do you say?" She demanded, indicating Crossarm with a wave of her hand.

"Um...sorry?"

Crossarm was rubbing at his spire, all the while muttering under his breath, complaining about having to re-finish the fixture. Even so, he still managed a simple, "Yes, fine. Just go."

Io nodded, took hold of Ratchet's hand, and guided the swaying and still smirking mech toward the door quickly, before Crossarm could change his mind.


	13. Chapter 12: Revelation

Thank you for everyone's support! As a way of giving back to you all, I am doing WaW requests on Deviant Art. Is there a specific scene from the fic that you would like to see illustrated, or a character that you would like to see more artwork of? If so, head on over to my DA page (I go under the handle Praxcrown5) and reply to my latest journal entry.

Ne-who, my shameless plug quota has been filled for the day. Enjoy the latest chapter of War and Wings! :D

* * *

Io waited until Crossarm's office door had closed behind them and they were partway down the hall before she rounded on her charge, drunken or not, and unleashed upon him the thoughts that had frolicked about in her processor from the moment they¬ had first suffered their CO's ire.

"I cannot believe you of all people would do something so... so... foolish," She rumbled disapprovingly. "Attacking Crossarm, getting involved in the fight with Foray..._my_ fight," she added, giving his hand a tug to keep him moving. "They were stupid risks..." The femme shook her head, and squeezed his fingers. "Especially if everything you told me tonight is true!"

While she had known that Ratchet was older, it was a revelation that he had come online sometime after the Golden Age's _s'vath_, immediately following Sentinel Prime's institution of the caste system-when fervor for the law had been at its zenith. And yet...somehow...in the heart of the most oppressive time in Cybertronian history he had managed to avoid the authorities by leading a double-life, completing his caste duties all the while apprenticing under one of the leading groundbridge engineers of the time, some 'Bot named Servo.

That made the joke that she had made to him earlier, about abandoning one's caste and treason, all the more meaningful.

Io frowned.

Though the High Council had been disbanded, it wasn't uncommon for 'Bots disciplined for minor infractions to find themselves facing persecution, or at the very least, dangerously unfavorable wartime assignments for past "crimes."

And yet Ratchet had openly professed to her his knowledge of groundbridge theory, first in his lab, and much more thoroughly at Maccadam's.

And given later revelations, she wasn't the only person aware of his "illicit" talents.  
Not only was he well-known at the clinic for his engineering prowess, but Optimus Prime and his command staff also seemed aware of it.

That they knew, that everyone in Iacon seemed to know, and he wasn't rusting away in some prison was simply... astounding.

But why?

Was it because he was so good at what he did and _didn't_ rub it in everyone's face?

Ahead of them, the clinic's main dropshaft, dominated the hall, and Io's thoughts quieted as she focused her attention on Ratchet, specifically getting the large mech to stop walking so that he wouldn't plow into the unopened compartment. As she reached for the control panel, she paused, brow ridges furrowed, as she noticed her reflection in the polished steel doors.

It had been a long time since she had actually looked at herself, and as her optics took in the contrastingly colored plating of her limbs and torso, and also the sharp, stylized features of her faceplate and helm, she couldn't help but feel troubled.

And not just about Ratchet...

Sighing and shaking her head for the second time in so many cycles, Io gritted her dental plates and jabbed at the shaft's control panel with her index claw. With a trill and a gentle hum, the doors slid open to receive them.

Optics still focused forward, the former 'Con pulled lightly on Ratchet's hand to coax him through the opening. At first, he didn't move-he seemed confused. After shuttering rapidly, his optics darted about as if trying to fix his location.

Io's frown faltered behind a weak smile, and she pulled his hand again, slightly more insistent. This seemed to do the trick, and Ratchet slowly moved into the cylinder so that the doors could close behind him.

The ground lurched as the dampeners lessened, allowing the platform to free-fall leisurely toward the first floor.

As they traveled in silence, Io couldn't help but re-consider Ratchet. As she did, the weak smile that had tried to claim her lips earlier, began to resurface.

She couldn't help it, not really. His face-plate was blank, emotionless, but in a way that wasn't angry or fierce. If anything, it was... unintentional-for lack of a better explanation, the kind of look that one could only make after imbibing waaaaaay too much energon. If she wasn't so worried about his future at the clinic, she might have called it..."adorable."

Io rolled the word around her processor for a moment. _Adorable..._ she thought again, her smile broadening.

But the expression was short-lived.

_What if Crossarm had deferred Ratchet's punishment to the disciplinary council?_ True to form, Io's processor began to fixate on more practical thoughts, shunting aside anything that might be considered light-sparked, almost as if that part of her couldn't make do with musings that weren't dark or morose.

And especially when Ratchet's earlier actions-as noble and amazing as they were-could come back to bite him in the aft.

Lowering her head, she considered that line of thought, her wings dipping sadly.

The information was there, incriminating and obvious: Ratchet was a caste-assigned, medical equipment technician-the lowest of the low in terms of science caste standing. A nobody. A dreg. Yet somehow, just somehow, he possessed enough engineering know-how to design and build the Clinic's #3 bridge himself.

His position as a field-medic might have gone unnoticed. After the war started, many med-techs were re-purposed as medics due to their similar skill sets.

But for someone to bridge the technological gap between medical tech and groundbridge engineering without thousands upon thousands of _vorns_ of training-illegal training-it just wasn't possible.

She could easily see that if the members of the Disciplinary Council were anything like their logic-oriented, and seemingly amoral leader, Prowl, Ratchet's service to the Autobot cause wouldn't amount to anything. Never mind that he had saved thousands upon thousands of lives by traversing active battle zones to rescue wounded soldiers, or that his continued background work as a groundbridge technician allowed Optimus and his followers to confront and slow the northward advance of the Decepticon army.

Nope. None of that would matter. Not when he so flagrantly violated the caste system for most of his life. And certainly not when one of their most highly decorated medics was at least partially responsible for the extensive damages done to Maccadam's...to say nothing of the surrounding sub-level.

No. He would make a perfect example to any would-be "mimic-mouse." And raising attention to himself, as he no doubt had by his actions this evening, may encourage just such behavior.

Unconsciously, Io squeezed Ratchet's fingers.

She was honestly grateful for his assistance during the fight. Had Ratchet not stepped in when he did, Foray would have likely beaten her senseless in front of the entire bar. But as much as she appreciated his concern, she just couldn't shake the horrible thought that something awful was in the works for her mentor. One didn't just sucker punch an Elite Guardsman-and damage a historical landmark-and get away with it without punishment...even if his intentions were pure.

Or that he had done such an "terrible" thing to protect his shield.

No, it wouldn't sit well with the Disciplinary Council at all...or any of the city leaders for that matter, Optimus Prime included. How could _this_ possibly remain silent? How could the Prime possibly turn a blind optic to such an affront?

She had been willing to face the consequences for her actions...especially if it meant that Foray never again sought out Decepticon medics-current or former-for their supposed, illicit "talents."

But she had never intended to include Ratchet, who now very well could pay a terrible price for his heroism.

She squeezed his hand again, and sighed. "Why did you do it?" Even though she was effectively talking to herself, she still felt the need to say something, anything, if only to assuage her own concerns over his well-being. "You could have lost it all...and for what? For me?" Frowning, she shook her head. "I'm...not worth it."

Her spark tried to twist piteously and she had to work hard to force it away. Ratchet needed her attention now, she had to remind herself. Regardless of what the next few solar cycles might bring or how their interactions might change because of this, his well-being was the only thing that mattered now.

The platform beneath her trods rocked slightly as the dampeners re-engaged, and Io steeled herself in preparation for the task ahead: Literally pulling Ratchet to his lab-as he still seemed unable to move on his own without some form of guidance. However, as they slowed to a gentle stop, as the dropshaft doors slid open with a cool-mechanical swish revealing a desolate primary corridor, she felt Ratchet pull on her hand.

It was a gentle and surprisingly controlled action, especially for a 'Bot who's recent actions professed inebriation.

Curiously, Io turned her head.

Ratchet stared down at her from behind gentle aquamarine optics. Concern was etched onto his normally steely countenance, and the way he considered her, sadly with drawn brow-ridges, one would think that he had just watched one of his closest friends die on an operating table. "How can you say that?" He asked with a glitchy twinge to his voice, as some unfiltered emotion reached his voice-box before he could consciously restrain himself.

Io's optics widened, both from the shock of seeing her mentor look at her with such an expression-possibly the first time he had ever done so in the two and a half stellar cycles that she had known him- and as her processor began to piece the available data together...

The logical conclusion was so shocking that she couldn't help but take an unconscious step backward. "Y-you...?" She stammered after a moment. "You're not really intoxicated...are you?"

Ratchet's concern faded briefly, superseded by the tiniest twinge of indignation. "_Puh-leeze_," he huffed with a bit of his usual attitude. "I've been around for a while. I know how to regulate my behavior when I'm overenergized."

Io released Ratchet's hand-slowly, so she wouldn't cut him with her claws-and turned so that she could face him. "Oh, so yanking Crossarm around by his spire and laughing in his face constitutes 'regulated' behavior, does it?" She snapped.

Ratchet quickly averted his gaze. "Erm...well," he attempted lamely, even as he rubbed at his neck. "Ok, so I would be lying if I said that the _visco_ wasn't at least partially responsible for some of what happened back there." Shaking his head, he refocused on Io. After studying her face-plate for a moment, his expression softened. "But that's not really important."

"What do you mean 'that's not really important?'" Io demanded angrily, repeating his words with a decent affectation of his vocal mannerisms. Granted, the way she put one leg forward and cocked her hip was a decidedly non-Ratchet behavior, but it definitely emphasized the point.

It didn't mean she was happy however.

"You could have been demoted! Imprisoned, even!" She fixed him with a pleading stare, her spark twisting painfully she lashed out at him. "Technically-no, by anyone's definition-what you did back there constitutes assault!" The femme shook her head and Ratchet couldn't help but blanch.

"Look, I don't know if you realize it, but Crossarm is out to get you. He's been trying to get rid of you ever since I was first assigned to you as your shield. I don't know what his game is, or why he singled you out of all 'Bots, but tonight he had justification." She gestured angrily with her hands. "What if he had called security? Huh? What t-then?"

Ratchet's optics widened as Io lowered her head and let out a flustered sigh. "So stupid..." She muttered softly, bitterly.

For a moment all she could do was stand there with her head bowed and her optics squeezed shut, anything to keep the torrent of horrible "what if" thoughts at bay. She didn't want to think about them; couldn't bear to. The thought of losing Ratchet-her mentor and, dare she admit, one of the closest friends that she had ever made-to something so trivial, especially when _she_ was the one that had encouraged him to drink so heavily at the bar, all so _she_ could determine whether or not his feelings for her were legitimate...  
She would have never lived it down. Never...

"Io?"

Io raised her head, intrigued by the apologetic tone to Ratchet's voice. But also by the gentle optics that returned her stare. She assumed that he would just up and yell at her. Heck, given all of the other times that she had instigated an argument, the old medic reciprocated in kind, wielding his glossa and voice-box with the same punishing finesse as he did his arm-blades.

"I didn't mean to worry you." He said half a moment later, interrupting her thoughts yet again. "I just..." His voice faded abruptly and he lowered his head. After several more tries, he nervously adjusted the splay of his trods and allowed a heavy, mechanical sigh to wash across his lips.

Io's optics widened.

Ratchet was not one to pull his verbal punches; not in the slightest. And the way he stalled, optics dim and thoughtful...it was almost as if he were considering the best way to say something difficult, something harsh, something that he knew would be hard to rarify.

Immediately her spark tightened. There were only two topics of discussion that would cause him such disquiet: their clearly more-than-academic relationship or her tenure as a Decepticon medic-something that they had only just started investigating at the bar. The latter seemed unlikely given the context, so it only left...

"I appreciate your concern over my well-being," Ratchet said finally, meeting her gaze. "It..." He smiled sheepishly. "It means a lot..."

Io optics widened. Had she actually said that she cared? No, not directly; but her statements to him-couched in anger as they were-could have meant nothing else.

"But..." And he paused, hand gesturing lamely as he struggled to find his voice. "My concerns are not with my position here at the clinic-what I meant earlier when I said 'that's not really important...'" Frowning, he studied her expression. "But with yours."

Io cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

The medic fixed her with a shrewd stare. "You're right, Crossarm does hate me..."

"You see, that's why..." She began, but Ratchet cut her off with a raised finger.

"But, no matter how much he may hate me, or how much it frustrates him to see someone of my 'inferior' caste-standing doing something other than medical equipment repair, he's stuck with me."

"Because of your relationship with Optimus Prime?" Io wondered, curious.

The seasoned medic shook his head. "Hardly. Optimus had nothing to do with my assignment here, nor do I believe he would he intervene on my behalf in matters of discipline." He replied.

"Fair enough." Io said with a shrug. "Then why is Crossarm 'stuck' with you?"

"Because of how heavily cross-trained I am," he replied, modestly. "I am the most qualified ground bridge engineer here...and possibly in Iacon." At this, a flicker of regret or sadness dimmed his optics, almost as if he were recalling an unpleasant memory. After a moment, he shook his head and focused on her. "My expertise with ground bridges, coincident with my commitment to medical science and engineering all act to protect my position. The Medical Council won't get rid of me because there are so very few ground bridge... technicians-" Io felt as if Ratchet had wanted to say "expert", but she knew he hated that level of self-aggrandizement. "-left, and Crossarm cannot make do without me, and he _knows_ it." At this the old medic smirked. Just as quickly, the expression dimmed, and he suddenly looked embarrassed. "Your arrival here...well..." He paused and rubbed at his neck plating, yet again. "Let's just say that he's been a bit more...erm...vocal about his displeasure with me."

At his tone, Io's lips stretched into one of her typical, sly smirks. _Gee, I wonder why_. She couldn't help but think, as she stifled a chuckle. Crossarm was clearly infatuated by her-almost to the point of obsession-and Ratchet...well...

Io's face-plate warmed, and her smirk softened into a contented smile.

Which only broadened when Ratchet nervously averted his optics, hand still glued to his neck. "Anyway..." He mused after a moment. "My point is that you have more to worry about than I do." His optics narrowed, though when he spoke his voice was soft and non-accusatory. "Io...you already have one mark against you...for your actions at the Iacon Research Academy."

Despite the sudden twinge of anger in her spark, Io managed to keep her face-plate austere.

Ratchet's knowledge of her "indiscretion" at the Academy was an unfortunate, but necessary, admission after their first field excursion. At the time, she had been vague on the details-she simply didn't trust the medic enough to divulge anything other than the fact that there had been an altercation between her and her laboratory supervisor.

The femme frowned and her claws clenched, unconsciously.

"Altercation" was putting it mildly. Her supervisor attempted to blackmail her for her energon research and Io retaliated the only way she knew how...violently. By the time security managed to subdue her, she had quite nearly torn out his right optic and gouged three, deep gashes across his faceplate.

As her claws clenched a second time, she felt Ratchet place his hand on her shoulder.

Io frown deepened, and she lowered her optics. "I realize that I could've handled things differently at the Academy, but...I fail to see how this is relevant."

Ratchet's grip tightened. "What do you think would have happened if Crossarm found out that _you_ were the one that started the fight at the bar?"

Huffing irritably, Io's first thought was that Crossarm would have blackmailed her as well; used the information to force her to...

She froze. Then, spurred into action by a series of related "there's no way in the Pit..." thoughts, her processor began to examine the implications of Ratchet's statement, cross-referencing her findings with everything that had transpired in Crossarm's office: specifically the timing of her mentor's seemingly drunken outbursts.

There seemed to be a correlation between Ratchet's verbal and or physical interjections...and her desire to confront Crossarm during their debriefing, almost as if Ratchet was intentionally drawing their C.O.'s ire.

"You...didn't..." She began, her voice fading as a subtle smirk began to tug at the corner of Ratchet's mouth. The expression told her everything that she needed to know, but before she do or say anything to that effect, Ratchet slumped like a de-cabled suspension bridge, his hand slipping off her shoulder to catch himself before he could hit the ground.


	14. Chapter 13: Confirmation

"Ratchet!" Io exclaimed as she watched her mentor drop heavily to his knee-pikes.

Stooping, she placed a comforting hand on his back-plating, just behind his shoulder-caps. "Ratchet?" She asked softly. "Are you okay?"

The old medic said nothing for a few moments. His silence, coupled with the sudden heaving reflex that shook his entire frame, concerned the femme greatly. He wasn't dying; his wounds weren't that bad. But he was still in poor shape...and his health could easily deteriorate, especially if there were other factors affecting his condition beyond those immediately visible.

"Ratchet?" She asked again, this time stroking his back-plate with the sides of her claws. After a time, her gentle coaxing convinced him to turn his head and open his optics. His gaze was distant, unfocused; but the _t'vre_ themselves glowed vibrantly. "It's me, Io." She said through a smile. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He said after a moment. Then, moving laboriously-his joints groaning loudly in protest-Ratchet adjusted his arms, and touched the wound on his left side. "I'm just..." Recalling his hand, he examined the energon that coated his digits with a frown. "I guess I'm in worse shape than I realized."

"You're lucky Rocky didn't kill you." Io quipped with a smirk that was all for the patient. Free hand moving to his shoulder-cap, she patted the red and white metal affectionately. "Can you stand?"

The old medic chuckled. "Let's find out, shall we?"

Io nodded and ducked her head, allowing Ratchet to lay his right arm across her shoulders. Then, standing, she distanced her trods, giving herself the leverage necessary to support Ratchet's weight as he struggled to bring his left leg to bear. Bearing down on his shield, Io herself straining with the effort, Ratchet slowly brought himself into a standing position.

The way his legs trembled and creaked, Io was worried that he might fall a second time, but Ratchet-due in part to his sheer stubborn tenacity-seemed determined to not to give into his weakened appendages, and trudged forward, cautiously, making sure his mass was centered, and that each trod was up to the task of keeping him upright with every step he took.

As they abandoned the Primary Corridor for one of the smaller tributary halls, Ratchet's voice broke the silence. "I'm sorry about all of this."

Io turned her head and considered her mentor through a gap in his armor. "What? The fight at the bar?"

"Erm...well, no," He muttered, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Not exactly. I meant this," He indicated his body with a sweep of his free hand. "I'm sorry that I couldn't...er...that I wasn't able to..." the mech sighed heavily. "I guess I'm not as fast as I used to be." Looking sad, he turned his head. "You shouldn't have to waste your time fixing me up..."

"Is that what you're worried about? Don't be." Io chuckled, and adjusted the lay of Ratchet's arm so that it wasn't pressing down on her wings so much. "Even though things went to slag when the fight started, from time to time I could see you through the mass of brawlers." She smiled up at him. "For a 'Bot who's pushing two million stellar cycles, you fight like you're fresh out of the Academy."

Looking even more embarrassed, Ratchet averted his gaze and muttered something that sounded like "you're just exaggerating" at low volume.

"And, as for fixing you up," She continued as if she hadn't heard anything. "It's...kind of an honor, actually; the least that I can do for... " The former 'Con paused, and her expression darkened. "Well...everything." She finished quickly, lips twisting into a doleful frown.

She knew the moment Ratchet got involved in the altercation with Foray that she would have to explain her actions to him; there would be no getting around that, not when she was already on probation.

Her frown deepened.

That meant disclosing her time as a Decepticon medic, the "Sharkticon in the room" she had been trying to avoid since she first realized she had feelings for him. It was the biggest stumbling block in their relationship, a key piece of her history that Ratchet seemed oblivious to. And knowing his more conservative views on everything but his ultimate career path...

Venting a puff of air over her lip, she lowered her head.

While she knew she had to tell him eventually, she hadn't expected it to come out like this. Careful wording in a controlled environment, yes, not startling revelations at a battlefield berthside. _Damn Foray_, she couldn't help but think. Unfortunately, she knew that such thoughts were useless. Foray was part of the problem, true, but only as a side effect of her past and not the root itself.

The femme stifled a second sigh. Her greatest fear was rejection. She had never fit in anywhere, not with the Decepticons-no matter how much she had hoped that their actions were a fad and that all their evils would fade away when they liberated the individual from the crushing weight of organized, controlled life-nor even with the Autobots, when she realized they could be just as horrible as her old comrades.

But Ratchet had been different. _Was_ different, she tried to convince herself.

And now it was all too easy for her to imagine their relationship falling apart, everything that they had built crumbling to dust...

Her thoughts stalled as Ratchet brushed her shoulder with the tips of his fingers, a feather light, strangely comforting gesture that made her spark leap.

Looking up at him, she found regarding her with the same, sad expression he had given earlier.

She tried to smile-if not for herself, for him-but it faltered beneath a sudden feeling of insecurity, and after a few astroseconds, she was forced to break his gaze.

The way that he had looked at her was almost pitying...

Pity followed by undoubtable rejection?

Io shook her head to banish that line of thought, not just because she just didn't want to contend with it right then, but also because they were nearing the door to Ratchet's lab and his health overrode all other considerations.

Slowing her stride well enough in advance so as not to cause her mentor any further discomfort, Io stretched out her free hand and pressed her palm against the broad, steel face of the door. With a sharp click the door unlocked and opened. As was the norm, a gentle gust of air-pulled into the lab by negative pressure-heralded a flurry of mechanized chirps and whirs as consoles and machinery re-engaged. The lights were soon to follow, bathing the highly organized clutter of the lab in a soothing, emerald green hue.

Coaxing Ratchet forward, Io guided him carefully across the space toward the far end of the room where two, equipment-laden berths waited to greet them.

As they approached their destination, and as Io maneuvered Ratchet's arm away from her shoulders so that he could brace himself against the wall, the femme couldn't help but cock her head, a curious smirk stretching slowly across her lips.

Considering how little time had actually elapsed between their parting earlier in the evening, and Ratchet's decision to join her at Maccadam's, Io wasn't at all surprised to see the equipment that she had delivered still sitting near to where she had left it. What really drew her attention, however, was the callous manner with which the equipment had seemingly been handled, especially the _glion_ gun which was actually resting upside down against an equally delicate _lantheron_ net.

It was totally unlike Ratchet; almost as if he had been sorting the equipment in anger.

_Interesting..._ she thought.

And...

Io raised a questioning brow-ridge. "Why are there only fifteen J-spanners? I was sure I delivered sixteen."

Ratchet stiffened, suddenly, and averted his gaze.

The femme smirked at him, playfully. "Dare I ask?"

The old medic rubbed at his neck-Io was surprised that he hadn't worn his neck-plating down to the underlying protoform-and shook his head, all the while making a peculiar gruffling noise with his voice box. "Don't." He said finally, even as his optics made a quick sweep of the lab.

Smirk deepening, Io shrugged her nacelles and moved past him, lifting most of the equipment into her arms so that she could transfer it to a nearby counter. She handled the _glion _gun and the _lantheron_ net separately, placing the gun right-side-up on a small shelf built into the wall-the same place held by its predecessor-and draping the net over a small side table next to Ratchet's console.

Once the equipment was situated, Io hurried back to the far end of the lab and took Ratchet's hand so that she could guide him toward the larger of the two berths. As the old medic sat down, a grunt of discomfort slipped past his lips.

Noting this, Io squeezed his hand, and to her surprise-and, admittedly, delight-he returned the pressure.

A smile slowly began to tug at the corners of her lips. Ratchet's response could very well be a return of pleasantries, basically a non-verbal way of saying "I'm fine; stop worrying about me." But with the state of his all-too-precious tools, his embarrassment at the _reason_ for their disarray, and his more open emotional state suggested to her distressed processor that it hinted at something deeper.

At least, her spark did everything in its power to convince her of it, because, as she had already digested, the alternative was too difficult to imagine.

Relaxing her claws to release his fingers and pick up her tools, her spark seemed to balk at the change in proximity. She hesitated, intrigued at the sensation, but then sighed heavily. It was too easy to imagine some indication of the other's feelings and it was hard not to try and hold on to or chase after every stray thread of emotional enerweb. _Ratchet's well-being comes first, _She thought to herself, shaking her head_. Everything else, including any...considerations about the state of our relationship are of secondary importance._

Releasing his hand, she nudged his bracer. "Alright, I need you to turn a bit," Io said, her voice all business. "Most of the dents and lacerations are superficial, but the damage to your plating here," she indicated his left side with a gesture. "...is fairly severe. And considering how much energon you're leaking, one of your secondary lines might have been compromised."

Ratchet considered his shield with wide optics, a slight smile on his lips.

Io cocked a brow-ridge and met his gaze. "What's that look for?" She half giggled.

Ratchet blinked rapidly and lowered his head. "Well, it's just...it's a bit odd for me to be on the receiving end of a prognosis."

Io smirked and patted his bracer affectionately. "Well, as trouble seems to follow in my trod-steps, you might as well get used to it." Ignoring the wide-opticed stare that studied her face-plate, the femme rapped lightly against his chest. "If you could lay back for me and hold your arm out like so..." she held her own left arm out to the side, bent at a right angle, to demonstrate. "We'll get started."

Ratchet quietly obeyed, swinging his trods up and over the lip of the berth so that he could lay flat against the table's padded surface. Just as well, he moved his arm allowing Io to scrutinize the damage to his side-plating.

"What on Cybertron did Rocky hit you with?" She chuckled after a moment. If she ignored everything else, she could almost imagine a return to their new status quo when humor was easy to pass between them. It felt good-and right-and it certainly helped the steadiness of her hands. She regarded him with a curious optic.

"A table...I think, or part of a table; I'm not really sure."

Another chuckle tumbled across her lips as she brought her face closer to his side. "Hmmm..." The femme purred thoughtfully, even as she ran her claws over the heavily deformed plating. She didn't want to cause him any further discomfort, but to really understand a wound-and in her mind, determine a proper course of treatment-you had to get a feel for it, literally. True, she could have just used her newly installed scanner to see through the twisted metal, but she wanted to formulate her own hypothesis before falling back on tech that was-at least for her-"new-fangled."

In this she was something of a traditionalist. All medics-in-training were taught how to use the latest gadgetry from the Autobots' research and development teams, but years working with the under-equipped Decepticons-they had technological capabilities equal to if not exceeding that of the Autobots, but they chose to use it for solely for military advancement-had prejudiced her toward more by-the-spark analyses and optical assessments.

She was halfway through with her ventral analysis when she shook her head. Ratchet didn't need her hesitation, he needed a skilled medic. By-the-spark assessments were sufficient but could often lead to wrong conclusions. For treating Decepticons, it may be sufficient, but she would _not_ allow herself to screw up here. Transforming the first digit of her right claw, she narrowed the focus to primary and auxiliary systems, and made her first pass.

Even limiting the stream and preparing herself for the flood of data she knew to expect, it still came as an assault on her processor-distracted as she couldn't help but be-and she all but stumbled backwards onto a nearby bench.

"Io?" Ratchet wondered in a concerned tone.

"I'm fine," she said flashing a quick, reassuring smile to hide her awkwardness. Someone as trained as she shouldn't react as such unless she was deeply preoccupied-and the medic who had trained her would know, so her excuse was useless if he was paying even the slightest attention-but she plodded on anyway."It's just..." She paused, and stowed her scanner, her head lowering so that she could rub the bridge of her chevrons with the back of her hand. "Your inner working are...complicated."

The seasoned medic laughed, seemingly oblivious. "Yes, I realize that I'm an old, outdated piece of anti-hardware."

"I didn't mean it like that," The femme replied, returning to coyness even as she reclaimed her original position next to him. Lightly touching his arm so as to encourage Ratchet to move the limb back into its original position-it had moved slightly during their brief interchange-Io met his gaze and smiled. Then she added imperiously. "True, I detected a mass of cobwebs, but the hamstertron is still manipulating the rods and pistons to acceptable levels."

Io couldn't help but smile at the ensuing mouth, agape in dull surprise, as her mentor attempted indignation. The shockingly bemused expression behind the optics gave him the lie, and soon both enjoyed a light-sparked chuckle.

"You deserved that, and you know it." She replied with a toss of her helm. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to start treating you. Lay back against the berth and stop fidgeting so I can concentrate."

The old medic smirked. "Your berthside manners need improving."

"And you need an overhaul." Io replied without missing a beat.

Ratchet chuckled a second time and finally conceded, resting his head against the lip of his back-plate, and making sure his arm was angled properly so that Io could access his side without any further distractions.

After a second pass with her scanner, replete with a full-body sway as her senses were momentarily overloaded by the data stream, she reached her final prognosis, and quickly set about the lab, gathering all of the equipment that she would need for the operation onto one of the lab's small, mobile carts.

As she filled a basin with cooled mech fluid, a sudden fluttering sensation in her spark caused her to pause and lift her head. Just as she was about to consider Ratchet over her shoulder, she heard a sharp scraping sound, then nothing...just silence. Smirking, she turned her head just enough to consider him out of the corner of her optic. He was still there, lying in the same pose as she had left him, except that his head was cocked stiffly ceilingward. Down-calibrating her optics a bit, she noticed that the temperature of his face-plate was elevated several degrees above normal.

Smiling to herself, Io set the basin of mech fluid on her cart and reached for a needle kit.

This wasn't the first time that she had "almost" caught him staring. Had she the motivation, she could probably populate a hardy list with all of the times that his legendary focus had lapsed in her presence, tonight not-withstanding.

Her smile broadened.

Adding a pry-bar and pump-flask to the contents of her cart, she wheeled the equipment to Ratchet's berthside, seated herself on a nearby bench, and opened a small compartment built into her bracer for the last component that she would need for the operation: a vial of medical energon.

Neon pink medical energon.

"Would it be presumptuous of me to ask exactly what manner of chemistry is about to course through my system?" Ratchet asked with a light chuckle, as he considered the syringe.

"What? Don't you trust me?" She replied with a smirk, even as she ran her claws gently down his brachial plating to his _tair_. As she probed the depression with the tips of her fingers, trying to locate the main energon line below the yielding mesh of his protoform, she was surprised to hear Ratchet laugh again.

"I wouldn't be much of a field-mentor if I didn't. Although I _could_ fully believe you would subject me to decidedly odd-but non-threatening of course-sensations in the name of practical jokes." He said after a moment, a clear grin on his face. "However, I am curious from a scientific perspective: energon shouldn't be pink."

"Says the lay-bot." She mocked with a light chuckle. Then, adopting a faux-haughty air-a good-natured jab at Ratchet's relative inexperience in _enerology_-the femme continued. "Energon is incredibly resilient. The chemical formula, though complicated, can be tweaked and manipulated to a remarkable degree so long as one has the mathematical know-how to do so." Holding up the syringe, she met Ratchet's gaze. "This iteration is basically the same as the last revision, except that I tweaked the _goranon_ molecule a bit, making it hypersensitive to photons," She explained as she emptied the contents of the syringe into his system. "This modified molecule absorbs photons and slowly re-emits lower energy radiation, a form of fluorescence, if you will. So long as it is exposed to visible wavelengths, the energon will glow pink."

"Fair enough," He replied with a shrug. "But why pink of all colors?"

"Because of you." Io said, coyly, setting the used syringe aside.

The old medic cocked a brow-ridge. "And...why would I inspire feelings of pink, exactly?"

"Surely, you remember the pink-oil prank."

Ratchet smirked. "I don't think I'll ever forget that one."

"Nor will I," Io replied, mirroring her mentor's expression. "I guess you could say that it inspired me, made me wonder if I could make a batch of medical energon that had the same coloration...without changing functionality or potency. For all the tinkering I did to it to give it 'decidedly odd' sensations...non-threatening of course." She assured him with a smirk.

"Interesting..." The old medic mused, his voice fading as a peaceful sigh slipped from his lips.

Io considered the serene smile that had claimed Ratchet's face-plate, and she couldn't help but mimic the expression, especially as she watched tiny tremors sweep through his frame, like miniature shock waves, out and back with a soothing sort of resonance. His armor responded in kind, the plates actually chattering softly, metallically, as they flexed and returned to rest.

"How are you feeling?" She asked.

Languidly, Ratchet's optics opened and he looked up at her, lips still drawn with content. "Surprisingly well," He said after a moment. "Euphoric, even...like I could pin Rocky's arms behind his back and hit him with a table..."

Io laughed. "Ah, so that's what actually happened."

"I assume so." Ratchet replied with a shrug. "Like I said, I really don't remember. All I know is that my arms had to have been forcibly raised for him to do the damage that he did. Perhaps the other Elite Guardsmen helped Rocky out, just to see that I got what I 'deserved.'" There was a bitter twinge to his words, though he still managed a broad smirk, almost as if he wore his wounds as a badge of honor.

The femme smiled. "Well, you did sort of punch out their commander." She prodded his mangled sidereal plate sharply. "Did you feel that?"

"No."

"Good. The _goranon's_ taken effect, then" Io mused and immediately set to work on his primary left-lateral plate-one of the doors of his altmode-with the chiseled tip of the pry-bar. "When did the rest of his platoon show up, exactly?" She couldn't help but wonder. "They weren't familiar to me at all, and you think I'd have noticed an entire contingent of Elite Guardsman...aha! There we go!" She exulted, as she finally managed to coax the plate out of alignment, enough so to slip the rest of the bar beneath, prying it away from Ratchet's medial plate.

Lifting the plate she turned it in her claws and gave it a quick visual inspection. The piece of metal was deformed but intact: she would have to reform the concave jetty that braced the window glass-but that was hardly of consequence given the nature of his other injuries.

Setting the plate to the side, she started on his sidereal. The white metal was so heavily warped that the pry-bar, on its own, wouldn't suffice. Setting the implement on the cart with her other tools, the femme withdrew her right-hand frame welder. With a flick, she set the energon alight and decreased the temperature of the flame so that it would plasticize the metal without melting it. Working quickly, she heated the portion of the plate that had been driven into his chassis and after a quick transformation, she used her claws to draw the metal out of the wound.

"They must have arrived sometime after we began discussing my internship with Relay." Ratchet said, thoughtfully, his optics watching Io as she carefully molded his sidereal plate back into its former configuration. It was slow work, and Io had to keep checking the fit against Ratchet's side to make sure the edges wouldn't catch on anything, especially his bracer and brachial plates.

"You think so?" Io mused, distracted.

Ratchet nodded. "And I'm tempted to think that their eventual appearance wasn't just coincidence."

Io met her mentor's gaze, even as she set the plate into the basin of mech fluid, freezing the metal in position. "You think he actually was planning to pick a fight?" She asked, derisively. "Why on Cybertron would he do something so stupid?" Grumbling, the femme considered her cart of equipment through pinched optics. "Then again," She mused with a dark chuckle even as she reached for her pry-bar. Closing her claws tightly around the item, she all but growled. "He was a rust-sparked slagger."

The room suddenly became quiet, and she was certain that she could feel Ratchet's optics on her face-plate. Huffing irritably, she forced herself to focus on his mantle-the main piece of armor that protected his chassis. Now that the sidereal plate had been removed, she could observe the true extent of the wound. There was a single gash, about as long as Ratchet's hand, where the sidereal plate had forcibly penetrated the mantle. Past this, through the underlying protoform, she could see part of a severed energon line, the source of the heavy leaking that she had observed in Crossarm's office.

To get at the line she would have to remove a portion of his mantle. It was sort of a back route to repair internal mechanisms. Normally one would initiate such repairs ventrally, but, with the mantle inverted along the wound almost as severely the overlying plates, a ventral approach wasn't an option.

Setting the tip of the implement against a nearly invisible seam, she began to work the plates, worrying them apart so that she could eventually pry them away from his protoform. Unlike the sidereals, the plates comprising the mantle were designed to be resilient. Or perhaps "stubborn" was the optimal word, as it took nearly three _breems_ of rivet-stressing work before she had opened a gap large enough for the tip of the pry-bar.

And all the while she worked, she could feel Ratchet watching her, silently considering her outburst, wondering why she was so angry with someone who's only "crime" had been a bit of over-enthusiasm.

Granted, he was somehow aware that she had started their eventual altercation. No doubt _that_ was playing into his thoughts as well...

Suddenly she felt his hand on her shoulder.

Optics blinking rapidly, she started as she realized that in the few moments that these thoughts had flitted through her processor, she had stopped working, pry-bar frozen in her equally motionless hands.

"Are you...?" Ratchet said softly.

"I'm fine." She insisted, her tone hasty and dismissive. But, of course, she wasn't fine; even Ratchet-as sheltered and naive as he was-could tell at least that much. Thinking about Foray, his mannerisms and the awful requests that he made of her at the bar-to say nothing of what might happen to Ratchet for getting involved-only stoked her anger.

The older medic said nothing. Coincident with his silence was a strange sort of feeling that washed over her spark, almost a sensation of disappointment or sadness that seemed to resonate with her core, and quickly filled her processor.

Io briefly turned her optics so that she could study her mentor's expression. The position of his brow-ridges and the frown that furrowed his style-lines seemed to match the expression still resonating in her spark, almost as if she had somehow been offered a glimpse into Ratchet's processor.

Her gaze quietly faltered under this scrutiny, and after a dismissive roll of her unencumbered right nacelle, the femme steeled herself, and did her best to refocus on her work. Even as she continued with her ministrations, she couldn't shake of the feeling that he was still watching her, silently introspective.

Clenching her dental plates, she poured every ounce of will-power-and hand power-that she could muster into her work, and within a few moments, she managed to dislodge the targeted plate.

Withdrawing her frame welder, and utilizing a higher flame setting, she heated the inverted metal on the dorsal side of the plate, guided it back into the laceration, and began the slow process of closing the remaining gap.

"I'm sorry..." Ratchet said after a time. Slowly, strangely reluctant, he released her shoulder. A heavy mechanical sigh fluttered across his lips. "I guess Interlink was..."

Io fixed him with a curious glare, right brow-ridge cocked questioningly. "Interlink?" She wondered. "What does _he _have to do with any of this?"

Ratchet stiffened. "Well...he stopped by the lab soon after you left and we...um...talked."

At first Io just stared at him, unblinking. Then, suddenly-so suddenly that Ratchet couldn't help but draw back in startlement-Io's optics narrowed to slits, she all but shouted. "That lying son of a scraplet! He told me he wouldn't tell anyone!" Slamming her newly transformed fist down into the berth, she turned away, unable to look her mentor in the face-plate. "I-I..._trusted_ him." Her voice couldn't help but glitch as she had to force herself to say the word "trusted."

It was a hard word for her. Ever since joining the 'Cons-and even after becoming an Autobot many vorns later-everyone that she could honestly say that she trusted had either lied to her, used her, or tried to blackmail her.

Interlink was one of the nicest 'Bots that she had ever met, and as sad it was to admit, the tiny mech was the closest thing that she had to a friend...well, perhaps other than Ratchet.

The femme shuddered and she crossed her arms protectively over her medial-plate. "Of all of the...I never should have..." She began, her claws clenching tightly against her armor with each attempt to formulate a coherent sentence. Eventually, still glowering and clenching her fists, she was reduced to cursing in _farixex-_a guttural hybrid of early and modern Cybertronian languages.

Clearly confused by the sudden change in her attitude, Ratchet tried to calm her, his voice soft and apologetic. "Io, you don't realize...I mean, all we did was discuss..."

"_Me_, right?" She demanded. "You discussed me."

Ratchet blinked rapidly. "Well, yes...but..."

Ignoring him, Io continued. "And I bet he told you all sorts of interesting tidbits from my time with the 'Cons. Like the strafing runs I did at Praxus, or my unintentional involvement in increasing the potency of red-energon, or the _toib'ai'lov_ tournaments that I competed in, or the role I played in the torture of Diode, or, heck, since we're all on about divulgence, let's go back even further, to when I first signed on with the cons. When my status as a Nova Cronum enerologist only earned me a single, dismissive glance by Shockwave. That's it! A glance! A single, slagging glance! And as a result I was relegated to a dank, dingy 'clinic' in the bowls of Kaon with all of the other 'low-caliber' scientists and medics..." She paused and her optics took on a dark, haunted look. "Where we were forced to..." The femme's voice faded to silence, and she lowered her head.

For a time she could only stare numbly at the floor, her processor whirring. Even now, _vorns_ later, it was hard to put into words, harder to admit that she had actually _gone along with it_ or at least accepted it as a phase of advancing the Decepticon cause.

A heavy, mechanical sigh fluttered across her lips. Despite the acceptance implied by the gesture, Io's spark still twisted painfully. Even if Interlink had betrayed her by divulging her history to Ratchet, the old medic couldn't be certain of the information unless she verified it.

Returning her gaze to the plate that she still held loosely in her claws, anything to keep her from meeting Ratchet's stare, she all but whispered. "I-I was a _thost._"

Next to her, she heard Ratchet intake sharply.

The sound caused her to look up, brow-ridges drawn in confusion and anger and...fear.

The mech's optics were nearly as wide as they could go, and as such, it was hard to read any expression from them other than shock, but it didn't take a stretch of the imagination to guess the horror that was being considered and run from in there as well.

Even as she shook her head in frustration and disillusionment, part of her couldn't help but consider the depth of disbelief on his faceplate. Why? Why would he be so shocked? Thanks to Interlink, this wasn't a new revelation. If anything, he should have been grimly nodding along to her words, disquieted, but not openly stunned.

However, she paid the thought no mind as the anger returned to her spark. It wasn't that she was angry so much that Ratchet had been made aware of her transgressions. Heck, she was planning to disclose them to him tonight, anyway. What truly frustrated her, however, was the fact that she had not been the one to tell him...

Ratchet was a veteran of more battles than she could easily count, and he had clearly come to terms with the horrors that he had seen or experienced during such. To Io, it was no stretch of the imagination to believe that he would be more forgiving of certain actions than others.

Killing he could forgive, torture he could forgive, illicit energon manufacturing, he could forgive.

But whoring her spark out to others...hundreds and of hundreds of others...

Even if the _ni'va'a_ prevented her spark energy from actually merging with that of her clients, how could her naive- and also virtuous-mentor ever see her as anything other than "dirty" or "impure," especially when she was more than aware of his unspoken feelings for her?

In the few astroseconds that all of this flitted through her processor, Ratchet had said nothing, still seemingly shocked by her admission.

Her claws clenched, again, and the same thought cycled through her mind. Why the _Pit_ was he bothering to put on such a show? Feigning shock over something of which he had prior knowledge, to her, was more condescending than merely being disgusted. Her frustration reached a boiling point after a time, and after unceremoniously tossing Ratchet's plate onto her cart of tools, she rounded on him with a torrent of harsh and mocking statements.

"Oh yes!" She sneered. "Who would have thought that someone with my 'talents' could ever find herself involved in such deplorable activities?"

"Wait..." Ratchet began, snapping out of his silence for the first time in several cycles and all but succeeding in pressing himself backward into the berth-withering really-away from her fiery optics, but she cut him off.

"What? I am jumping to conclusions? You _did_ have a conversation, with Interlink did you not?"

"Yes, but..."

"'But' nothing!" She roared. "I explicitly told him not to tell you, especially because you had made such a point _not _to read my file. I..." She paused, and her voice glitched. "I-I wanted to be the one to tell you, to discuss with you in private the things I knew you would have...issues with."

"But..." Ratchet pleaded at her tone, and, reversing his previous behavior, pushed himself into a sitting position.

"I can't believe him!" Io continued, oblivious.

"Io..."

"And to think," She paused and considered him through pinched optics. "That you said _nothing_ during our talk at Mccadams."

"Io, please..." There was a strained tone to his voice. Desperation, confusion, despair, or something else, entirely, she wasn't sure; Ratchet was notoriously difficult to read, after all.

_Why?_ Part of her couldn't help but think.

But, as before, the less-than-rational portion of her processor dismissed the thought as irrelevant, and continued with her rant...exactly where she had left off. "How it _must_ have _disgusted_ you." She hissed turning her back to him, her wings dipping sadly. "How _hard_ that conversation must have been! Ah, Autobots... so honest and forthcoming with their feelings and thoughts."

"Io..." Again, Ratchet's voice sounded strained.

"Well, hey! Since we're all pulling _all_ of the metal out of the forge, why don't I tell you the real reason that I started that fight at Maccadam's."

Ratchet fell quiet, and even though her back was turned, Io was certain that he was watching her with wide, attentive optics.

"When you went to secure a few more energon cubes for your tower, Foray approached me and offered to triple the amount of money that you clearly must have paid for my 'company.'" Lowering her arms, she tapped, irritably, at her femoral plates. "'Once a _thost_, always a _thost_.' That's the mantra among the dregs. Primus forbid that some of us turncoatswant nothing more than a new life among the Autobots, free from the tint of our past transgressions." Io paused and shook her head. "I'm not surprised that the rest of his platoon eventually made an appearance. No doubt Foray promised them some well-deserved R &R."

For several long moments the lab was silent save for the hum of idling machinery.

Then, "I am so sorry..." Ratchet said in a low voice.

Io's audio receptors rotated back. She had been so consumed with her own thoughts that she hadn't made out Ratchet's comment. "What was that?"

"I said..." The mech paused, and Io heard his intakes draw in yet another batch of air. "I'm...sorry."

The femme chuckled, darkly. "Yeah, I'm sure you are."

Io heard some movement behind her. Then, quite unexpectedly, she found herself facing Ratchet.

The old mech looked as though he had aged a million stellar cycles. Completing his haggard appearance, his mouth hung open as if he were still in shock. "Io...I..." His hands tightened around her shoulders, and before Io could do or say anything, he pulled her close and held her firmly against his medial plate.

Immediately she tensed, and tried to pull away. "No, don't touch me." She exclaimed, shrugging her nacelles. "I don't need your pity or your lies."

Ratchet didn't release her. "Io...be quiet." He said softly.

But she would not be deterred. Thus ensued several moments of scrabbling, twisting this way and that, before she had to accept that there was no escape.

Powerless to do anything other than talk, the femme shifted her optics and met his gaze. She tried to conjure up a look of righteous indignation, but it was hard, pressed against his chest as she was. "Why? So you can tell me how disgusted you are? How Interlink is honorable and decent, a model of the Autobot cause?"

"Io..."

The quiet, apologetic tone to his voice was so unlike him as to cause her disquiet. "Let me go," She hissed, flexing her shoulders against his arms a second time.

Nothing. The old mech didn't budge.

"I said, let go!"

"Not until you calm down." He rumbled a moment later. "And..." He paused seemingly for effect to make sure she was looking at him. "Not until you realize that I... don't... care... about your past."

Io's optics widened. _ He 'didn't care?' Impossible. _She thought, stifling a frown. It was illogical to think otherwise, not for an late Golden Age 'Bot steeped in the caste system and sheltered behind a mountain of steel and glass and personal choice.

_But then again, where was the revulsion? _She couldn't help but think. _How can he be so calm and accepting after that? I _couldn't_ have been _that_ mistaken about him._

Especially since she knew Interlink had spilled the energon...

"Also," He continued, still holding her tight to his medial plate. "Your anger with Interlink is completely unfounded."

She pulled back, suddenly, and almost managed to break free of his determined grip. "How can you say that?" She hissed. "The slagger lied to me! I would say that I'm completely justified in..."

"Io, shut up." Ratchet interrupted.

The femme's voice-box produced a muffled growl, but something about the tone of his voice compelled her to remain silent. Maybe it was because it completely lacked any vehemence.

"When Interlink and I spoke earlier, it was more of a... a... pep-talk than anything else." The old medic's optics flared briefly as he seemed to carefully choose his words. "He did not tell me anything about your history with the Decepticons, only that you were having a hard time...'fitting in,' as he put it." Io felt his fingers tighten against her cockpit, and after a moment, he lowered his head and sighed. "I'm sorry..." He started to say, but quickly fell silent.

_He didn't...? Interlink didn't...? He didn't tell him _anything?

"I should have paid more attention to you and how you were acclimating than staying cooped up here in my lab. I should have... I should have seen..." Ratchet started, but again his voice dropped off, and Io couldn't help but stare at him with wide, disbelieving optics.

The depth of emotion buried within each of his words was impossible to calculate.

_Why...?_

Io's optics widened to their limits as she realized that, by leaping to conclusions, she had probably hurt Ratchet more than if she would have just been forthcoming with him in the first place. Rather than let him slowly acclimate himself to her past vices over a period of time-like she had originally intended-she had mercilessly bludgeoned him over the head with all of them at once, never giving him the time to comprehend...or recover.

And if that wasn't bad enough, she then had the audacity to accuse him of intentional ignorance bordering on outright deception. She had treated him-her closest friend and mentor-with contempt and distrust...as if he were part of the vulgar, Cybertronian rabble.

_It's no wonder he can't find his voice. _

Feeling like a world-class heel-strut, Io lowered her head and pushed lightly against Ratchet's chest to distance herself from him. As much as she appreciated his concern-and touch, she realized with a start-she just couldn't face him knowing that she had probably screwed up whatever chances they might have had for a partnership. Let alone, a friendship free of awkwardness.

Io felt Ratchet's arms tense, but after a moment-and with a great deal of reluctance-the old mech released her.

As she stepped back, her spark began to twist painfully, almost as if it were somehow aware of what had happened and was actively protesting their sudden change in proximity.

Io tried to ignore it, optics glued to the floor, silent as she was flogged by her thoughts, but it was difficult.

Ratchet must have felt something similar, because he too lapsed into silence.

Several awkward cycles passed with neither medi-bot able-or willing-to attempt any sort of conversation. It wasn't until Io noticed several drops of fresh energon hit the ground between her trods that she was able to snap herself away from her thoughts. The wound on Ratchet's side had begun leaking again, meaning that the _veransinthin_ was starting to wear off.

Io's optics widened. If the _veransinthin_ had been metabolized, the _goranon-_a powerful pain medication-wouldn't be far behind.

The femme shook her head and cursed under her breath. She was failing at everything tonight, it seemed. She had been so consumed with her own emotions and shortcomings, that she had completely ignored her responsibility to Ratchet as his medic.

Hurrying to his side, she touched his arm. "I'm sorry..." She lamented, still not able to meet his aquamarine gaze. "I should have been fixing you up...r-rather than..." Her voice cut off with a hiss of static, and as her intakes huffed in a sigh, she allowed her claws to drift down toward his bracer.

"It's ok..." She felt Ratchet's palm against the back of her hand.

Io lifted her head and was surprised to see him staring at her with a gentle smile.

When she opened her mouth to speak, the old medic merely shook his head and, laying back against the berth and adjusting his arm so that Io could once again access his side, said. "Don't worry about it. We had important matters to discuss. Besides," he chuckled as if at a happy memory. "I'm old, I've been through a lot worse."

Io suppressed a smile that came to her lips unbidden. There seemed to be a lot more to Ratchet's comment than his good-natured response would indicate, almost as if he understood the depths of her remorse and was actively trying to make her feel better...despite the pain that he was still feeling in his spark.

_He was deep_, she started to think, but something alarmed itself inside her processor.

_Strange_. _How could I know that?_

But unfortunately, this revelation was secondary to the continued realization that she had hurt him in the first place. And that he still had physical hurt to contend with.

Her smile faltering, she meekly withdrew her welder and resumed her work.

Other than a severed secondary energon line, the damage to Ratchet's internals was minimal. Her earlier scans had indicated a small stress crack in his coolant cistern, but unlike his spark chamber or energon cisterns, Ratchet's own healing mechanisms were capable of repairing the damage on their own.

The only thing left for her to really repair was the energon line itself.

Clamping both ends of the severed line to stem the new energon flow, and grabbing a needle kit from her cart, the femme married the two ends of the laceration and quickly sewed it shut.

After the line was mended, she flushed his chest cavity with a bit of mech fluid, removed the clamps, and began welding the protoform mesh along the tear.

After that was done, it only took a few _breems_ to finish welding the primary laceration marring his mantle plate, two cycles to reshape the metal jetty on his lateral, and a few more to set each piece back into their proper alignment.

Once everything was reattached she took a step back and studied her handiwork from a distance.

"How does that feel?" Io asked after time.

Ratchet pushed himself to a sitting position and lifted his right arm so that he could look down at his side. "Everything looks in order." He mused, thoughtfully. Then, he rotated his arm several times at the shoulder joint, his servos and pistons whirring loudly. With each pass, he turned his arm to a new position, altering the orientation of his bracer and flaring his mantle plating to see if the repaired sidereal and lateral plates moved and flexed as they should.

After he was certain that the fit of his armor allowed for unimpeded motion of his arm, he climbed to his trods and headed for an open area of floor.

For a moment, Io wondered what he was up to, but her thoughts were cut short as he began to assume his alt-mode.

The transformation was slower and more methodical than what one would normally expect. Io surmised that he was checking to make sure that his mantle plating and sidereals split and rotated without warping or bunching against one another-both ailments that were painful and annoying to have to repair.

Within a cycle, all that was left of her mentor was a fairly plain, red-and-white cargo vehicle.

After a moment of consideration, Ratchet's voice called out, "This is a good fix." Transforming quickly, he smiled down at her. "I'm impressed."

A hesitant smile flitted across Io's lips. Ratchet rarely praised people for their work, even if they were deserving of it, and even if he was trying to cheer them up. That he did so now, to her, after what had passed between them... well, she could hardly wrap her processor around it. _Especially because he seems genuine! _She couldn't help but think. Meeting his gaze, she allowed her smile to firm. "I wouldn't have such skills if not for your guidance. And, in all honesty, I..." Her voice trailed off and her expression faltered. "I-I don't know where I would be, if not for you."

Concern flashed briefly across his optics, and he stepped closer to her, arms outstretched as if wanting to offer her comfort. He then paused, almost as if he realized exactly what it was that he was doing. But after several moments of silent contemplation, Ratchet steeled himself, stepped closer and knelt before her so that he could study her expression at face level.

The concern being emoted by his concentrated, aquamarine stare was incredible. Sure, she had seen compassion from him before, but never with such intensity. It gave her pause, and caused her voice to glitch even as she tried to explain herself. "I mean it, Ratchet..." She continued, sadly. "Before I met you I was... in a dark place." She shook her head. "I hated the 'Cons... and I hated the Autobots. I still do, to a degree..."

"And you have every right to." Ratchet said, darkly, honestly.

Io studied his face-plate with wide optics. Then, coerced by a sudden pang of despair, the femme dropped her chin and clenched her fists. Hearing Ratchet say that, say that she had a right to be angry, conjured up all of the horrible memories that plagued her thoughts after her defection. She hated the war, hated everything. With no home, no family, she had given into her despair. She had thrown herself at the feet of the Autobots hoping for something to give her life meaning.

Peace.

Freedom.

Hope.

But she was afforded none of that.

Nowhere it seemed was she safe from the pain. True, the Autobots weren't as outwardly cruel, committing vile acts with a practiced and enthusiastic hand, but as she knew injustice existed as an almost socially acceptable yet unspoken habit among the "good guys," her experiences amongst them were nearly equally painful if inexpressible.

But now, here was someone who seemed fully to understand, genuinely commiserating with her in her anguish. And being near her as he was, encouraging the cavalcade of memories, the normally intense former Decepticon wanted nothing more than to cry, to scream at the top of her voice box.

All of those thoughts quickly evaporated, however, when she felt Ratchet's fingers alight on her shoulders.

Her spark fluttered at his touch, and her body slackened as the old medic pulled her toward him. He was slow, hesitant, almost as if he wanted to give her the opportunity to escape should she truly want to.

Io smiled at the gesture-it was far more respectful than anything she had ever been afforded-and leaned forward, accepting his embrace with a measure of enthusiasm that the old medic clearly hadn't anticipated, considering the way he stared sheepishly down at her with wide, unbelieving optics.

As she ran her claws lightly over his laterals-another accepting gesture on her behalf-Ratchet's optics shuttered and closed. Lips drawing into a contented smile, he adjusted his arms so that he could better accommodate her wings, rested his hands lightly on her hip-plating, and tightened his embrace, pulling her more fully against his medial plate.

Io's own optics closed, and she rested her helm against his chest, her voice box almost purring.

For a time, both medics were lost to the world.

Eventually, after almost two full _breems-_Io noted with surprise-Ratchet nudged her wing to get her attention.

"Hmm...what?" Her optics fluttered open, and she looked up at him, smiling shyly.

"I meant what I said earlier...when I said 'I was sorry.'" The old medic said softly. "I'm sorry that they...that you..." He paused and bit his lip. "I heard rumors that the 'Cons were forcing their medics into such 'practices.' But..." He shrugged his shoulder-caps. "I always assumed that it was Autobot propaganda; our way of demonizing Megatron and his followers." Ratchet shook his head. "I never thought that he would stoop so low..."

Io frowned. "Well, he did, and it was...horrible."

Ratchet's arms tightened around her and Io felt a wave of compassion wash over her spark. "It's ok, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

The femme closed her optics and sighed. "No, I..." She paused. "It's about time you knew the details." She shook her head, sadly. "I-I was a fool for not telling you sooner..."

Again, she felt his hands tighten. Then: "Why didn't you?"

Io opened her optics but didn't look up. Instead, she absently drew her claws in swirls across his mesh "I was...afraid." She all but whispered.

Ratchet stared down at her with wide, unblinking optics. "Afraid?"

The femme nodded.

"Since when are _you_ afraid of _anything_?" Ratchet asked coyly, but seriously.

Io smiled. She could tell by his tone that was trying to be respectful, though the slight emotional twinge to his words suggested something deeper, more personal. As if the question itself was born of some deep-seated fear that he might have done something to betray her trust.

Meeting his gaze, her smile deepened. "It's not that I don't trust you, Ratchet..." She paused as a flicker of indignation flared behind his optics. "I just..." Sighing, she shook her head. "I haven't had much luck when it comes to trusting 'Bots."

"Your former mentor blackmailed you..." Ratchet said sadly.

Io nodded.

"Were you afraid that I would do the same?"

Io stared up at him, and for a few startled moments said nothing. Then, looking suddenly guilty, she averted her gaze. "Yes."

She felt Ratchet's arms tense. "And...did you also think that I would try to...take advantage of you?"

Io shrugged. "At first, yes. Heck, everyone else had...why would you be any different."

The mech recoiled slightly, and his brow-ridges drooped. The pained expression on his face-plate made it seem as though someone had just stabbed him in the spark.

A sudden twinge of pain in her chest, coupled with Ratchet's forlorn expression, compelled Io to reach up and lightly touch the side of his helm. "If it's any consolation, I don't feel that way anymore." Her lips stretched into a soft smile as the old mech leaned into her touch and closed his optics. "In fact, you're one of the most decent and honest 'Bots that I've ever met."

Ratchet's optics fluttered open and he stared down at her, his expression adorably modest. "I...don't think that I'm..."

"Always so hard on yourself," Io grinned.

"I might say the same about you." He smirked back.

For several moments they just stared at each other, both smiling.

"After I realized you weren't after that..." Io said after a moment, recalling her claws. Her features again became sad-not overly depressed, but an almost wistful sadness, as if remembering some nearly forgotten hurt. "I figured that you may hate me for having done something so...deplorable."

"Seriously?" He said incredulously.

She cocked an eyebrow and her smile was back, stronger this time, almost forming into her characteristic friendly smirk. "Well, you don't exactly get out much, so it stands to reason that you could be repulsed at such behavior."

"But it wasn't by your choice." Ratchet said cautiously, even considering her face.

"That doesn't stop some for hating me because I was a participant in it, willing or no."

Her smirk stayed, but her gaze grew thick with meaning.

Ratchet shuttered his optics rapidly. He too was reviled by some who believed that by "bucking the system" he must secretly support Megatron...no matter his spoken or practiced allegiance.

"When you didn't read my file, I couldn't help but feel that any problems surrounding my past would eventually catch up with me."

"You mean you were increasingly afraid that I might push you way in the end...even after all of this time?" Ratchet fixed her with a shrewd stare. "Do you really think I'm that shallow?"

"No," She admitted after a time and the wistfully sad smile returned. "But, I couldn't shake the feeling that all of this...seemingly my last hope for a normal life..." The femme paused a bit her lip. "I could just picture our friendship, and everything else we've worked for, falling apart because I wasn't honest with you right off the ground...because I have such a difficult time trusting people."

Io lowered her head and the sadness deepened. "That's one of the reasons why I asked you to Maccadam's tonight," she said, heavily, as her spark tried to twist in her chest. "I had to know if..." She hesitated, and Ratchet couldn't help but pull her closer. "I had to know if you were genuine," Her voice faded to silence, and she turned her head, suddenly ashamed. "I had to see for myself if you actually cared about _me_ for who I was... rather than for what 'services' I could provide for you."

"I would never..." Ratchet began, determinedly.

"I know," She interjected, cutting him off with a smile that seemed to strain through her discomfiture. "Your actions at the bar made that quite clear."

Meeting her gaze, the medic smiled, but remained silent.

"Also, since we're already on that topic, I wanted to thank you." She said after observing his reaction, her smile becoming less forced. "For stopping Foray when you did. It's... it's probably the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me."

"And I'd do it a hundred more times...if in so doing, it meant that no one ever took advantage of you again." The look of stalwart resolve on Ratchet's face-plate, coupled with the tone of his voice, told her far more than his statement ever could have, and her optics brightened in delight.

He truly cared about her and not just as a means to an end. Io's mouth nearly fell open in amazement.

"Ratchet...I." Io began, softly, reaching up to brush his helm with the tips of her claws. As before, the old mech closed his optics and leaned into her touch. As a rumble of contentment vibrated through her outstretched fingers, she couldn't help but smile.

A smile that seemed of its own accord to guide her index finger from touching the cheek of his helm to gently caress his face-plate.

Immediately, Ratchet's optics snapped open and he stared down at her with a look that teetered between terror and amazement.

The metal plating that covered most of their bodies was just that, armor. Sure, the overlying mesh was hardwired with billions of sensory nodes that allowed them to detect changes in temperature and pressure, as well as granting them access to sensations such as pleasure or pain that one would normally ascribe to organic beings.

But armor could be changed out or upgraded, added to or overhauled. It facilitated their survival on Cybertron-and other worlds throughout the galaxy-but it was their protoform, the softer metal beneath that contained all of their internal workings, that really defined them as physical beings.

The face-plate of a Cybertronian was part of their protoform, not their armor.

For Io to touch Ratchet's face-plate and not his helm was almost an expression of love, an action usually reserved for partners.

Io should have been shocked at her action, coming from some unexpected-but certainly not untoward or unbidden-section of her spark, but at the thought, her spark fluttered happily, almost as if in agreement.

The femme smiled up at him softly, but genuinely.

Gently, so that she didn't cut him, she traced his style lines and followed the sharp cut of his chin with the tips of her claws. She could easily tear his face open if she wished. That he knew this and didn't recoil from her hand, showed that he trusted her completely.

He just sat there, unflinching, meeting her gaze with optics that were as intense as they were curious.

As she followed the curve of his face-plate back to a portion that was normally hidden by his helm, she pulled herself forward, bringing her helm close to his, so close that their face-plates nearly touched.

And within, she seemed to feel her spark resonate with his. It was if she could feel his surprise succumbing to acceptance just as it seemed to be in hers.

If being with him was what her soul wanted, what Primus himself wanted, who was she to refuse?

Just as she felt her nose-plate brush his helm, the wall to their right flashed to life and a sharp, angry voice called out.

"So, this is what is meant by 'detox and repair' now-a-days!"

In a flurry of scraping metal both Ratchet and Io snapped to attention, turning to face an angry, glowering Crossarm.

For a time, the jet just stared down at them, so livid, it would seem, that he couldn't translate the rage into words. But more than just that, there was a bit of sadness as well, evident by the angle of his wings and brow-ridges. What the sadness suggested was unclear, but merged with anger it gave Crossarm a visible sign of authority-completely unlike his normal self-impossible to ignore.

"You. Basement. Now." Crossarm hissed, pointing at Ratchet with a finger that for all its stubbiness eerily resembled a claw. Io would have been hard-pressed to do better.

Io opened her mouth to protest, but Ratchet cut her off with a shake of his helm and with an urgent plea of *Don't do or say anything to provoke him.* via her private com-link frequency.

*But...* She tried to argue, but the resonating tone in her helm disabused her of any notions of rebuttal.

Ratchet saluted Crossarm smartly and exactly and started for the door.

The CO watched him leave with that continuing cold rage, his eyes unblinking from one door hiss to the other. He didn't even turn around for the two following cycles even though it was clear that Ratchet was not suddenly going to reappear to continue whatever he had interrupted.

When at last he looked at Io, he regarded her with what could only be contemplation. _"What should I do with her?" _the shape of his face emoted.

But of course Io had spent the same time in a slowly simmering rage and now that she had his attention-or he hers if it mattered-the rage boiled over into words. Undoubtedly similar words to those Ratchet had dissuaded her from expounding in his presence. Words that erased any possibility of an answer to her CO's unspoken question.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," she said at last, clipping the sir off too abruptly to hide her emotional state.

Crossarm's brow-ridges raised, but though the tone was decidedly disrespectful, he seemed more taken aback that she would use it with him at all, officer or not.

"What troubles you?"

"You, Sir, are an aft!"

Crossarm looked at Io with a confused mix of utter astonishment and deep hurt. "What...are you...?"

"That 'Bot is probably the most decent person in this clinic and you treat him with nothing but contempt!" She roared, pointing angrily at the closed door. "In fact, his only true crime tonight was having the bearings to defend my honor!"

Crossarm, in his office, took an unconscious step backwards, wings lowered and optics wide. "Io..."

Io's optics narrowed and her wings dropped to a threat position. "Oh, but that's right, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" She growled and stepped closer to the screen. "Have you ever fought for a cause that didn't revolve around you? That didn't _benefit_ you?" Pointing her claw at him, she continued, her voice cold and mechanical. "Have you ever fought for someone other than yourself."

The flabbergasted jet just stared back at her, mouth hanging open and optics as wide as they would go.

But before he could reply, Io pressed the communication kill switch and locked the console, preventing him from contacting her. She also made a point to disable Crossarm's hailing frequency should he attempt to reach her that way.

This cessation as well as Ratchet's absence made the lab feel decidedly empty, a profound silence filled only by the manifestation of her rage.

Unfortunately, the righteous indignation that seethed through her from processor to spark lasted only until she realized that her actions could easily prove detrimental to Ratchet.

She knew that Crossarm wouldn't take up any sort of disciplinary action against her. If there was one thing she knew about him, one character trait-other than egotistical-that defined him as an individual was his stubbornness. He would hold true to course and attempt to woo her again, once tensions between them settled.

But she could easily see Crossarm forcing upon Ratchet an additional orn or two of work in addition to the fifty energon tanks that he already had to clean out.

Tapping her femoral plates, the femme lowered her head and sighed.

She should have kept her mouth shut. Ratchet had _warned _her to keep her mouth shut.

And now she likely had made the situation worse.

Then again, there was always the impossible hope that her rant may have somehow navigated through the coarse exterior of Crossarm's dusty, underused processor and cure him of his misogyny.

She shook her head with a rueful chuckle, and made her way back to the far end of the lab to clean up and put away the equipment that she had used for Ratchet's operation.


	15. Chapter 14: Partner

The basement.

That was the name given to the lowest and largest level of the Iacon Clinic and Triage Facility.

To many, it was a name that underscored the sometimes servile nature of the caste system, a relegation of untold numbers to spark-numbing tasks of banal importance. A consideration shared by those of the higher castes, of course.

To others, it was a symbol of punishment for sins against the established order or of transgressions for acting above and beyond one's station.

But, despite the surrounding stigma, the actual structure of "the basement" was far from foreboding.

At least as far as Ratchet's sensibilities were concerned.

From the second level catwalks, the room was a sea of massive, golden cylinders, each about two toranometers tall, by one-fifth that distance wide, and each spaced about a quarter of a toranometer apart. The cylinders were arranged in a geometrical pattern in the likeness of a _senifex_, a strand of CNA that had been separated and reflected through a three-fold symmetry. Chaos to lesser minds, the basement was filled with form and meaning to anyone with even half a degree of sense.

Above all of this, the ceiling was an orderly network of pipes and pumps, set against a metal backdrop that had been polished to a mirror finish. Not only did this give the windowless space an increased sense of size, but it also allowed for easy visual examination of the cylinder caps when the tanks were full and sealed.

It was as if its designers, recognizing its function as a storehouse for the very substance that made everyday life possible, saw it prudent to establish this-the most prosaic of all places-as a baseline of engineering and architecture, a physical manifestation of the Golden Age saying "build the basement with beauty, and everything else is up."

Unfortunately, it was hard for Ratchet to appreciate the architectural wizardry of the space closeted as he was in his inglorious redoubt of tank T1.

He had been working on the same chasis-sized portion of the tank ever since he had started his punishment some seven _groons_ ago...and he had made very little progress since then. It was long, tedious, and laborious work-the kind that he normally enjoyed doing-and he would have enjoyed it, if it weren't for all that had transpired the previous evening. And certainly not when his body was still in shambles from the fight.

It was no surprise then, after a few more _breems_ of rigorous scrubbing, the seasoned medic unceremoniously dropped his tools, sat back against the far side of the cylinder, and adjusted his posture so that he could stretch his legs out in front of him.

A heavy, mechanical sigh washed across his lips.

He was tired. He was sore. And now he was filthy. Very, very filthy.

And knowing that most of the tanks were empty and open, revealing interiors stained with energon residue, didn't help his mood.

Cleaning energon tanks was never a pleasant business.

It was common knowledge that energon was prone to differentiation-growth of a strangely gelatinous crystalline precipitate-if allowed to sit for long enough. Routine stirring of the energon cisterns was one measure of control, aimed at slowing down this process. However, stirring was only a short term solution, and thus regular cleaning, maintenance, and specialized filters were the only way to keep the crystals from clogging the pumps.

Chemical solvents were absolutely out of the question. Any substance potent enough to dissolve solid energon would make short work of most internal systems, especially the flex-chord lines that pumped energon throughout the body. Even so much as a drop of _servan'ith'i _ in one thousand _nars _of energon was enough to cause stasis lock in most Cybertronians.

Improper rinsing of the tanks could leave well more than a drop of _servan'ith'i._

This meant that despite the advanced level of technology that defined their civilization, the only way to properly clean out the cisterns was with some good, old fashioned elbow grease.

Ratchet sighed and rested his helm against the lip of his back-plate.

As his optics followed the entire two _toranometer _length of soiled cylinder above him, he couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since the tanks had been properly cleaned. If the others were anything like T1-and Ratchet could very well believe that they were-he would have to guess that it had been at least three stellar cycles, if not longer.

Had he not still been reeling from the events of the day, he might have been furious-or at least severely frustrated-especially since it was Crossarm's responsibility to make sure the maintenance crews kept up with their assigned duties.

The risk...

Precipitated energon could easily clog the sinuous flex-chord lines and lead to processor or servo starvation. It was an uncommon malady, but that was because everyone took tank maintenance so seriously-even the Decepticons! Looking up at the tanks, Ratchet had to admit he had seen worse, but, if the problem was left unaddressed, it could result in incalculable losses-energon was their lifeblood and medical-grade energon was in a constant state of high demand-especially considering how strained their forces were already.

_Crossarm..._

A second sigh fluttered across his lips, and he shook his head to banish some rather unpleasant, "sergeant-themed" thoughts from his processor.

Ones that had nothing to do with energon residue.

His hands clenched around his knee-pikes.

To say that the young HMO aggravated Ratchet to the nth degree was an understatement.

And after tonight...!

He couldn't believe Crossarm was that naive-that staggeringly incompetent-taking all of the unusual events of the evening at face value. It wasn't like fights were a common part of Ratchet's day, eating Elite Guardsmen for breakfast and destroying bars as a means of exercising his servos.

And while his conduct with Crossarm could easily have been interpreted as assault, even he _had_ to realize that for Ratchet to act in such a way, he _had_ to be over-energized; too messed up to be doing anything, even something as processor-numbing as cleaning energon tanks as dirty as these.

For Crossarm to sentence him thusly...well, it practically screamed spite, a way for the young HMO to show his disdain for Ratchet's burgeoning relationship with Io.

He paused. _Io..._

Now there was a 'Bot that he couldn't quite figure out, but who somehow always brought a smile to lips and gave him something happy to think about. Something that _wasn't _Crossarm and his ridiculous punishments.

Consider how well the night had turned out, despite the fact that he had nearly destroyed Maccadam's by defending Io from that pompous blue and red Elite Guardsman...

Or that he had almost made Interlink into an unwitting accomplice-and sundered the tenuous friendship Io had made with him-even though the tiny 'Bot's only crime was convincing Ratchet to follow Io to the bar in the first place.

_Or_ that his antics with Crossarm could easily have sent him to the stockade instead of scrubbing energon grime.

No. Since his talk with the tiny surgeon the previous evening, all of the events had ended near miraculously-even down to the lack of serious damage done to him from a Rocky-propelled table!

He had started the evening with the choice of sad solitude, bumbled through relational terror, and ended with a stupid smile on his face that said for him that life was looking up in a way he had never-in his nearly two million stellar cycles of operation-dreamed possible.

He sighed wistfully. Tonight's revelations had been nothing short of amazing.

And-this is what made his emotions concerning Io so convoluted-spark-rending.

Lips twisting in a sudden frown, the old medic considered the most profound of Io's revelations: that of her former occupation as a Decepticon _thost._

That the 'Cons _had_ actually subjected their "medics" to such horrible treatment was one of the hardest things Ratchet had ever been forced to learn. Up until that moment of disclosure, he had truly believed-had wanted to believe-that all rumors of alleged "spark prostitution" were just that, propaganda... nothing more.

How wrong they had been.

Of course, his repulsion at Megatron's methods of control paled in comparison to the painful twist in his spark that came from the knowledge of Io's participation. True, he could never hold her accountable for choosing to believe Cyberton needed change-he believed this with his whole spark, just not Megatron's view of it-and especially when her remorse at her involvement and her lack of enjoyment of it was plain to everyone.

But knowing how much hurt Io had endured over her tenure as a Decepticon made Ratchet so spark-sick that much of the coagulated energon precipitate had been removed by the sheer force of his fury.

And not just anger over what had been done to her...but an almost suffocating umbrage born of regret.

Regret over not having been there to save her from such atrocities.

Ratchet's fists clenched suddenly.

The emotion was irrational. Completely and utterly irrational. He had been in Iacon serving under Relay for the entire duration of her internment. As such, he had not even the slightest possibility of knowing her. And yet, he found himself wishing that he could have stopped it somehow, rescued Io before she had been recruited by the 'Cons... before they had robbed her of her pride as a scientist and her dignity as a Cybertronian.

Ratchet allowed a heavy, mechanical sigh to flutter across his lips.

He cared about Io...and as more than just a friend. After what had transpired in his lab, there was no way that he could deny his feelings for her... or her for him. And part of him-admittedly one that was thinking on a much more rational level-realized that some of these feelings of frustration were a byproduct of their developing relationship.

Even still, the old medic couldn't help but beat himself up over situational circumstances that had always been well beyond his control.

Unconsciously, his fists clenched again.

It must have been a terrible existence. From reports he had read-reports that he now realized to be credible-mortality rates among _thosts _were scarily high, nearly equal to those of soldiers. Many of them perished from Spark Collapse Disorder, their spark energy disrupted so severely by destructive interference from opposing spark frequencies that it shrank and eventually dissipated.

It was a particularly nasty and ignominious way to go offline.

And what made it even worse was that it stemmed from the corruption of one of the most sacred rituals on Cybertron: the _elin'istina'ath_, or "spark-bond" as it was colloquially called.

From historical times, romantically involved Cybertronians-as a physical means of expressing their love and devotion-could choose to merge their sparks. It was an irreversible melding of spark energy, a harmonization of carrier frequencies, a visual metaphor for the sharing of life energy that Primus had given to each citizen of Cybertron.

A foundational act of devotion, it was not entered into lightly.

The rarity of spark-bonded pairs stemmed not only from the dedication the bond implied-a Cybertronian could live millions of years-but also from a veritable gauntlet of lethal side effects.

According to a several millennia-old file Ratchet had accessed from the Hall of Records on spark-bond mortality-written by a psychiatrist named Rung-most deaths in bonded pairs occurred during the lengthy bonding process itself. Usually they were the result of, as Rung called it, "spark stalling" where the spark of one partner extinguished-for reasons that seemed to extend beyond the realm of scientific understanding-killing both partners.

And, as if that weren't enough, there was also "breaking trauma," where the post-bonding death of one member of the bond triggered the death of the partner. Normally less common, the war saw an increase in this latter form of death, Bots dropping suddenly dead, testaments to the failure of mission after mission.

True, according to those that had actually survived the bonding process, the benefits far outweighed these risks.

Consider: when two partners spark-bonded, they gained an extended sense of the other's emotional state, the other's feelings, thoughts, dreams and desires, not to mention an almost second sight when their partner was near.

For beings that were confined to one body for eternity, it was the closest thing to truly vicarious living they could possibly experience.

Unfortunately, _because_ of its rarity-it was so uncommon as to be a general wonder-and its sacredness, it also fueled curiosity. Even before the war, many Cybertronians longed to see into the "secrets" of this mysterious action, and some went so far as to experiment with ways to simulate spark-bonding without the long lasting, and potentially lethal, side effects.

Thus a closet industry was born in the dark places of Cyberton-in Decepticon and Autbot-controlled territories alike-and Spark Collapse Disorder was but one of at least a dozen terrible conditions to emerge from the shadows.

But the specter of a grisly death didn't deter the deviant and technologies were invented to minimize the dangers.

It was Megatron, however, who transformed this curiosity into a twisted profession.

Again, the anger swelled in his spark, and as his head lowered, chin to medial-plate, his brow ridges narrowed into a predatory glare.

Forcing a Cybertronian to form an artificial spark-bond against their will...it was...was... _criminal_, in every way there was to be criminal. It was an affront to Primus himself.

If he had ever thought otherwise, this proved that Megatron was _evil_.

He didn't care about Cybertron, didn't care about establishing a society based on personal choice and free will.

No. He only lusted for control... over everything that Cybertronians valued.

As he considered this, considered Io, his processor felt suddenly so hot in his braincase he thought it would short. And his hands clenched so hard on his knee spikes they should have caused stress fractures. It was as if something were constructively building his emotions to a crescendo.

He grimaced. _Megatron will pay for his crimes against Cybertron...and against Io_.

He would see to that. His fists clenched even harder.

Somehow, someday, he would make the lord of the Decepticons pay.

At the thought, his processor echoing with strange reverberations of anger and despair as it cooled back to normal transfer speeds, he couldn't help but sigh.

_Who am I kidding anyway_? The old medic thought, resisting a mirthless chuckle. _Make Megatron pay_? He could just imagine himself charging at the dark lord of the 'Cons screaming "for Cyberton!" at the top of his voice-box. The thought was almost laughable.

He sighed. Dreams-no, fantasies-were good, but right now he needed to think about the present.

Like cleaning energon tanks.

He looked up the shaft of T1 and tried to amuse himself with the realization that, as coagulating energon residue tended to collect near the bottom, his work would get easier.

Another sigh. Somehow gravity mocked him.

_So what _am_ I going to do?_

It was all he could wish for that his shield was as happy as possible. Of _all_ 'Bots, she deserved a better existence, one free, not only from the taint of her former profession, but free also from Autobot prejudice.

Outside the cylinder, Ratchet's audio receptors picked up the sound of light, metallic trodfalls.

Annoyingly familiar trodfalls.

_Crossarm..._ The old medic thought, his frown firming.

He looked up the grimy shaft of the tank and then at his goo-coated hands. _And the solar cycle had started out so well..._

Just as he condescended to address his CO, a loud banging sound resonated throughout the cylinder, prompting him to clamp his hands over his audio-receptors. "Argh! What is it?" He demanded tersely through gritted dental plates.

For a time, he wasn't sure if his response was received. Granted, amplified as his voice would be, echoing along the two toranometer length of the tube shaft, everyone _in the basement _should have heard him. But it took several more astroseconds before Crossarm's unmistakably arrogant voice called out:

"We need to talk."

Rolling his optics, Ratchet could only imagine what banal triviality proved so important that it needed a personal visit by his CO. Cupping his hand to his face plate-something he instantly regretted as it was coated with grimy energon residue-he replied, "Yes, what is it?" in a just-too-brusque voice.

Oh, he _tried_ everything in his power to sound neutral, but the anger that he felt toward the young jet constricted the circuitry of his voice box, giving his statement a decidedly "gruff" overtone.

The average Autobot might have missed it, but Crossarm, being the strut-shard that he was, would have noticed, and he halfway expected the clinic's HMO to jump down his oral-vent the second the question had passed his lips.

Or bang on the tank wall again.

Ratchet's hands moved close to his audio receptors lest he needed to mute the coming barrage. But the verbal eruption never came, just an awkward silence that seemed to stretch on for a _groon_.

Then. "There's been a change of plans."

Ratchet cocked a brow-ridge. The tone of his CO's voice was decidedly bitter.

In the five stellar cycles that he had known him, he had _never _heard Crossarm speak in such a manner.

Authoritative: yes.

Cocky and self-righteous: most assuredly.

But down-right resentful: never.

Perhaps Io had ignored his earlier request to keep quiet... and screamed some sense into the young HMO. Ratchet didn't know whether to be horrified or amused at the idea; Crossarm could definitely use the discipline.

"I was just contacted by Optimus Prime," The jet said quietly, interrupting Ratchet's thoughts. "He wants to see both you and Io in the Hall of Records. Now."

Ratchet's optics widened. "Did he say why?"

A sharp bark of laughter erupted from the other side of the wall. "No. And it never crossed my mind to question his orders. Unlike some other 'Bots I know, I _respect _my superiors."

For a moment, Ratchet's mouth hung open.

_Did Crossarm just accuse me of insubordination? _ He replayed the sergeant's words just to be sure, and then a second time for good measure.

Maybe Ratchet had underestimated his own worth at the clinic. True, Crossarm was horribly inept when it came to the mundane, and many of Ratchet's duties were geared toward the completion of those tasks that the sergeant just couldn't be bothered with. And Ratchet _was_ able to serve in two much-needed positions. But even so, the current tone of Crossarm's voice suggested barely restrained anger...as if he had committed himself to ridding the clinic of the last remaining threat to his authority, and slag all the consequences.

It was a bold move for the young jet, and Ratchet was careful to change the tone of his voice to something that he hoped was calming. "So, why didn't you just contact us over our com-links?"

"I couldn't get through to you...or Io." Crossarm's voice became wistful as he said her name. And then he added in his familiar-and somehow strangely comforting-bravado: "As you know, com signals don't transmit through the alloy of the energon tanks."

"Of course, " Ratchet replied with a smirk that he kept from his voice. "But you _should_ have been able to reach Io..."

"She shut me out!" The jet roared, suddenly, with a new emotion-rage-and decibel level that jarred Ratchet back against the wall of tank T1, hands to his audio receptors for all the good it did him. "She deactivated her com-link, and locked the communication console in your lab! She..." He paused, and a familiar, rapid, clicking sound suggested agitated pacing. "I've tried everything I can think of to contact her...back-doors, private frequencies, visiting the lab in person, but..." A defeated sigh penetrated Ratchet's hands and he dislodged them to make sure he heard every word. "She won't talk to me...nothing." His voice faded to a whisper and the clicking stopped. "She...said..." His voice cut out with a bit of static. "I don't know what I..."

Ratchet's brow ridges drew down in confusion...and-dare he admit it-concern. "Sergeant..."

"Just... contact her." He growled. "And head over to the Hall of Records. One of the Prime's operatives will meet you at the door."

The sound of the jet's retreating trod steps echoed pitifully throughout the cylinder, and after several stunned cycles, Ratchet climbed slowly to his trods.

Crossarm's responses were...disconcerting, for lack of a better word. And for the third time in as many cycles, Ratchet couldn't help but feel alarmed. The nature of his dialogue, the rapid mood swings...it was a depth of character that seemed out of place, and Ratchet couldn't help but wonder if Io _had _actually yelled at him.

Granted, "yelled at" was probably too soft a statement, knowing his shield. Io was a femme that spoke her mind, and was notorious for telling people exactly what they didn't want to hear... even if it was the truth.

_Especially_ if it was the truth.

Ratchet smiled. He was one to _think_ the truth, but he'd never rub it in someone's face-plate, especially if they were an authority figure. The closest he had come to it was tonight, but _that_ he could at least chalk-up to intoxication. And while his spark may resonate somewhat with the anti-authority ideals of the Decepticons, he still acknowledged the chain of command, and fully understood the importance of working within the system.

Heck, even his "illegal" apprenticeship under Servo bent the rules a bit without completely disregarding them.

No, he needed to find out what had transpired during his "punishment" and why Io was "hiding." It was the only way to truly understand Crossarm's unusual behavior. He looked around at the energon tank for the thousandth time, a too small space the only semblance of clean in the entire shaft.

_It is not like a more few cycles here would actually matter._

Moving quickly yet cautiously-the floor of the tank was covered with a thick layer of slippery crystallized residue-Ratchet climbed the ladder built into the wall and stepped off onto the narrow platform built around the top of the cylinder.

*Io?* Ratchet tried, using her private com-link frequency.

The femme's response was instantaneous. *Ratchet?* She asked, clearly shocked that he would be calling her so soon. *Why are you contacting me? You do realize that Crossarm _can_ pick up this transmission, even if it's on a private channel?*

*Yes, I realize that.* Ratchet replied with a smile. Her concern was almost palpable.

The femme laughed. *Quite the rebel, I see.* Then, in a thought-voice tone that was decidedly business-like, she asked. *Since this obviously isn't a social call...what's up?*

*There's been a change in plans.* He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. He stopped. When would he remember that his hands were still covered in a slimy blue-black goo? He sighed and decided not to dwell on it too much. Though he couldn't help but cringe as felt a small blob of coagulated energon slide down onto his back-plate.

*Oh?*

*Optimus wants to meet with us.*

There was a long pause from the other end. Then. *Y-you...don't think he's...*

Ratchet shrugged-a force of habit considering she couldn't see him-and replied, *I don't know. But if I know my old friend, he would have given Crossarm a reason for the summons if it had been something that he felt comfortable discussing over an open com-link frequency.*

*Hmmm...* She mused, thoughtfully, and the seasoned medic couldn't help but smile at the sound in his processor. *Some sort of 'operation,' perhaps?*

*Perhaps.*

*So we aren't in trouble?* She posited.

*I wouldn't say that.* He paused. * But, I don't believe this meeting will be about our time at Maccadam's.*

*What's the plan, then?*

*Meet me outside the Grand Oratory in a _breem_...* Ratchet paused and looked down at his body, specifically at all of the energon residue that blackened his normally well-kept finish. *Actually, make that two breems; I wouldn't mind cleaning myself up a bit, lest I sully another historical landmark.*

Io laughed. * I always knew you were a 'Bot that placed appearance above duty , but now I have confirmation.*

He goggled and her laughter increased as if she could see his expression. * Very well, then. Outside the Grand Oratory. Two breems. Got it.* There was a short pause, perhaps no more than an astrosecond. Then...* I'll see you in a bit...partner.*

Ratchet's optics widened to their limits and he had only the mental capacity to stutter. *W-wait, w-what?*

A modest chuckle danced merrily through their link-her only response-and after a moment, the connection terminated, leaving Ratchet alone to consider his thoughts.

Alone, that is, on top of a two toranometer-high perch with a processor that wanted to spin out of his braincase and plummet all the way through the floor.

Partner?

_Partner!?_

The word cycled through his mind over and over again, and despite the redundancy, he found the phrase incomprehensible.

Impossible.

_Had she...? Had he...? When had...? Were they...?_

He put both hands over his face and for once didn't care that they were soiled.

Had their relationship really crossed the threshold into partnerdom? _No, no... it couldn't have._ He conceded after a time, his processor whirring mightily. _Not when all I did last night was... _His thoughts trailed off as he reconsidered the last part of the evening, just after Io realized that he, in fact, had not discussed her history with Interlink.

The terror that he had seen, naked, in her optics...it lodged in his spark like a blade of burning alloy, tearing down the emotional barriers in his processor and triggering a potent guardian reflex-what compelled him to reach out to her...to hold her.

In a daze, Ratchet made his way around the platform rimming T1 toward the primary catwalk along the second level of the depot. His hands never left the safety rail.

Which, of course, left a long smear of energon residue, like the trail of some giant space slug.

It wasn't until a few moments later that he realized the mess he was making. Releasing the rail, the old medic vented a long sigh and made a mental note to call for cleanup..._after_ meeting with Optimus; he simply didn't have the time, nor the mental fortitude, to bother with it presently.

After a short walk, the pathway curved sharply and opened into a square-shaped room dominated by a shallow, basin. Willing his trods to move, he cleared the room in two strides, activated a control panel, and stepped gingerly into the feature, his thoughts still focused on his shield.

_"Partner?"_ He couldn't help but think again, even as two crystalline panels descended from the ceiling, forming a barrier around the basin and himself. Once the panels were firmly in place, a section of wall directly in front of him opened and a nozzle began showing his body with a chemical solvent.

The cleaning process was loud and messy but, distracted as he was, he hardly noticed.

_Was she serious? _Ratchet wondered, even as the first nozzle withdrew into the wall to be replaced immediately by a second which began spraying him, helm to trod, with heated mech-fluid.

_She sure seemed to be_, _especially when... _Immediately his face-plate warmed. He had never expected her to touch him so...intimately, especially not when the tone of their conversation was anything but.

It was baffling...

Wonderful to think about, assuredly, but baffling.

Unconsciously his processor recalled that moment and he had to suppress a shudder as he remembered the sensation of her claws against his mesh.

_No!_ Ratchet thought suddenly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. It was clear from their conversations, both in his lab and at Maccadam's, that Io did not think highly of being objectified.

And...to think about her in such a way...it just seemed wrong, somehow, even if she did consider him a partner.

_Partner?_ He couldn't help but think again, even as the mech-fluid nozzle shut off with a soft hiss. A rapid sequence of beeps sounded from behind the panels, signifying the end of the wash cycle. As the thin sheets of crystal withdrew into the ceiling, newly emerged vents in the walls began blasting him with inert nitrogen gas, drying his mesh and restoring his finish to its usual, glossy, luster.

Numbly, he lifted his trods so that he could clear the lip of the basin. _And... _he paused, processor teetering on the edge of what could only be called pleasant terror. _If Io is serious... what do I do about it?_

Despite the fact that he had been hoping-nay dreaming-of a partnership with Io... he had never given thought to anything beyond the initial "procurement."

It was a consideration he had never, truly, considered.

And it was this uncertainty...this unknown variable, which scared him, not to mention bringing to mind previous thoughts of inadequacy.

From the bottom of his spark, he wanted Io to be happy.

And now that she seemed like she was trying desperately to be just that, he was afraid that if she chose him, all it would do would be to hold her back from greatness... from making a life that truly mattered...

Because she was stuck in a rut shackled to a goalless medic flirting with prison-time...

Because he couldn't live up to her expectations...

His confusion propelled him to a second door way-this one leading away from the depot and into the hall housing the central drop-shaft. As he neared the waiting room, the texture of the wall paneling began to slowly change, abandoning their once dull, drab appearance in favor of a flawless, mirrored finish.

Ratchet paused to watch the full transition. Such simple elegance was typical of most Golden-Age structures, and he had always been fascinated by it. Now, part of that fascination was simply due to its rarity. Atomic reconfiguration tech had all but vanished from Iacon in order to conserve resources for the war effort.

Venting a puff of air-he had no time for musings or feeble attempts at distraction-the old medic turned to resume his course, but paused as he caught sight of something simple and plain, something that he hadn't actually seen in a long, long time.

His reflection.

As he took in all of the bulky plates comprising his chassis, shoulders, and trods, he couldn't help but frown.

For whatever reason, he never realized just how old he looked.

Granted, his aged appearance was partly due to the shambled state of his mesh, still dented and rent as it was from the fight, but beyond this, factoring in only the raw architecture, his overall design was old, outdated... obsolete. He didn't have any illuminated style lines that many younger bots added onto their protoforms, nor was his armor sleek or... "fancy" by any stretch of the imagination.

His design was a function of purpose: his shell had been specifically constructed for medical equipment repair. He was not meant to stand out or to appear important, like the Senators with their winged headpieces , or the Guardsmen with their communication coils. He was designed to blend into the background, to go about his caste assigned duties without drawing attention to himself.

He sighed.

_What can I _possibly_ offer her?_ He wondered, lowering his head. If only he could rationalize that question the same as he did with his engineering problems...then he could truly accept his feelings and move on. But, as it were, such revelations seemed well beyond the scope of his aged processor and he always seemed to default back to insecurity.

_I'm old, outdated, unimportant_, he said to himself, his own personal mantra.

Suddenly, despite the torrent of vices plaguing his thoughts, Interlink's voice crept into his processor.

_"This isn't about you!"_

Ratchet blinked rapidly as the entirety of their conversation came to mind. And after several moments of silent contemplation, he smiled-sadly-and shook his head.

_It's not up to me to decide what is best for her._ He thought finally and with great effort. _ If her spark-her very life essence-has compelled her to choose me as her partner, then I guess I'll just have to accept it...even if it defies explanation._

Tearing his optics away from the mirrored panel, he left the hall and made his way quickly to the dropshaft. After one last moment of hesitation, he stepped on to the lift platform and punched his destination into the control panel.

For the entire decent through the Grand Oratory, Ratchet focused his attention on the floor beneath his trods, anything to prevent his processor from formulating series after series of possible outcomes, what might and might not be from the inevitable meeting.

No, he was going to let the situation play out as it would-like he eventually allowed himself to do at Maccadam's.

For one who liked being in control, it was a discomforting feeling.

The platform rocked gently as it alighted on the ground floor of the Oratory, and as the doors opened with a beep and a swish, Ratchet braced himself and stepped forward onto the beautifully decorated steel, tile floor of the Oratory Atrium.

Despite the building's overwhelming beauty-the terraced energon fountains, the welding sculptures, the sky holograms projecting across the ceiling with their real-time atmospheric images of clouds and various astrological bodies-Ratchet's only concern was the nearby exit.

And what might lay beyond...

After another beep, but this time accompanied by a gentle gust of air, the doors of the Oratory opened out onto a plaza, known by locals as the Grande Promenade.

A name implying vastness, as far as open space was concerned it wasn't all that large. But, given that the rest of historic Iacon was a jumble of closely-nested Golden Age buildings, sub-levels, and elevated walkways, its size was impressive.

The main feature of the space was not its openness, however, but an elaborate oil fountain surrounding a large, exquisitely-lasered _serex_ statue of Amalgamous Prime. Originally designed for energon, it had been retrofitted to pump lower viscosity, oil-not pink, mind, but a medium brown with metallic highlights-as energon was now a precious commodity. Like the statue, the cistern itself was comprised of _serex_, but a coating of special film on the cistern gave the oil an opalescent quality as it spilled over the lip into the reservoir.

What always got Ratchet's attention, however, given his training as an engineer, was the oil fountain's retrieval mechanism. Most fountains had a secondary cistern to collect "spent" oil so that it could be pumped back into the primary one. This fountain, however, was quite different. Oil that cascaded over the edge of the cistern was not collected, but rather, through some astonishing trick of gravity manipulation, forced to arc up and back, cresting the lip of the fountain and splashing into the reservoir so that it fell all over again.

It was a beautiful sight... that is, until Ratchet glimpsed the gray and black jet that was curiously examining one of the back-arcing streams of oil with the tips of her claws, her optics beaming with an almost sparkling curiosity.

Immediately, all thoughts of Crossarm's incompetence, the trepidation surrounding Optimus' mysterious request, and the stunning revelation that Io may actually see him as something other than a friend faded to background static as he watched her standing there simply being intrigued.

_She seems so...happy. _ Ratchet thought with a broadening smile. _Ebullient, even..._ He paused, optics rapt with fascination as the tiny femme stooped so that she could wave her hand between the polished steel substrate and the stream as if to make sure that the oil didn't actually touch the ground.

After recalling her hand and examining it thoroughly to verify that there wasn't a single drop of oil, her wings twitched with excitement and she giggled merrily.

It was a sound that made his spark melt and he allowed himself an unfiltered sigh of contentment.

Suddenly, Io paused. Her right audio-receptor cocked backward, questioningly, and then she turned, and studied him over her shoulder-nacelle.

Much to Ratchet's surprise, a smile-the intensity of which he had never seen in all of their time together-erupted across her face. It was as if Hadeen, eclipsed by both of Cybertron's moons, had gone from totality to fullness in the adjustment of an optic.

_Beautiful..._ The thought was in his processor before he knew it. _So, very beautiful..._ He continued to marvel, especially as she spun smartly on her trods and strode eagerly across the promenade to meet him.

But he had little time to consider.

Only a few mechanometers distant, Io launched into a full-out sprint, her femoral plates and trods flashing brightly as she cleared the short distance in three, graceful strides.

"Wha...?" He managed, just before she leapt up, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck-plating and pulling herself against his chest. Despite her smaller size and mass, this sudden, unexpected action caused Ratchet to stumble backward, ungracefully...and, so it would seem, comically, considering the sudden string of delighted chuckles that tumbled from Io's lips.

Startled to silence, Ratchet could only stand there in the middle of the Promenade, arms raised, looking down at his shield, blinking slowly as his processor struggled to contain the thousands upon thousands of threads of unfiltered sensory data that had saturated his thoughts.

Her sudden proximity, the subtle purring sound that seemed to emanate from somewhere within her chest, the feeling of her claws as she idly explored the contours of his neck-plating, the adorable clacking noise created as her wings folded behind her and fluttered in uncharacteristic show of contentment, not to mention an unusual-yet oddly calming-tugging sensation in his spark...all of these acted to knock the seasoned medic well out of his comfort zone, throwing him off of his game and leaving him little more than a mute, still statue that could have easily taken Amalgamous' place in the fountain.

Heck, he couldn't even decide where to place his hands...or whether or not he should touch her at all.

And the lack of excess energon in his system didn't help matters either: there was nothing to lower his inhibitions or boost his confidence. In the end, it was just him, as normal and insecure as ever, reacting in exactly the same manner one might expect of an aged recluse of a scientist who had never before been romantically involved...with anyone.

"I had convinced myself that I wouldn't see you for orns," Io said softly against his helm.

Ratchet's optics shuttered rapidly. Not so much from her statement, but from the sudden wave of relief that seemed to envelop his spark seemingly out of nowhere. At first, the "why" behind the sensation was eclipsed by the sensation itself. After a few moments, however, realization began to dawn and he couldn't help but goggle down at his shield, amazed...and, also, slightly nervous.

Empathy was a strong component of Cybertronian relationships, romantic or otherwise. Less developed in loose friendships, relational empathy was capable of remarkable degrees of depth, becoming so powerful in the case of spark-bonded pairs that they could literally feel each other's pain or gauge their partner's emotional state... even at great distances.

A surge of warm energon surged through his face-plate causing him to avert his optics. If the relief filling his spark had, indeed, come from Io... their relationship _had_ evolved far beyond that of mere friends.

"Ratchet?" Io asked, quietly, shifting against him.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, the old medic refocused on his shield...and was surprised to see her looking up at him with bright, curious optics.

"I'm sorry..." He managed after a moment, resisting the urge to look away. "I'm just...I guess you could say that I'm..." His voice cut off with a flustered hiss of static. "I..." lowering his chin, he sighed. It was clear from her actions that she had truly begun to think of him as a partner.

But, he had to admit to himself though it felt like his spark would break, it wasn't meant to be.

He... just couldn't accept it.

Not when there were better choices out there. Not when he had nothing to give her.

Eventually, he managed to coerce his voice box to verbalize some of the confusion plaguing his spark. "Io, you...y-you deserve better than...than a rusty old field medic."

Io's optics widened slightly in alarm. Then, after a few startled blinks, narrowed her optics and leaned closer to him. "Is that how you see yourself?" She asked sternly.

Ratchet tried to turn away, but Io released his collar-plate long enough to halt the motion of his helm with her claws. "Uh-uh, you're not going to turn away after saying something like that." Once their gazes were locked, Io fixed him with one of her legendary stares and asked in a low voice. "I'm your shield, am I not?"

"Yes..."

"And as my field mentor, it's up to you to trust my judgment, right?"

"On certain things, yes," Ratchet replied with a smirk that didn't quite reach the whole way to his optics.

"You know what I mean." She replied playfully. Then, in a softer tone she asked. "Seriously, though, Ratchet: You do trust me, right?"

The old medic's spark fluttered happily in his chest as he considered his answer. He had never really thought about it before, but over the stellar cycles he had, indeed, come to trust her implicitly...more than he'd ever trusted anyone in his life. "Yes." He replied, truthfully with a smile that reflected his sincerity. "I do."

A sudden wave of contentment in his chest, coupled with the bright smile that suddenly claimed Io's face-plate, made Ratchet's spark leap. "I...t-thank you." She replied, modestly. "Aside from Interlink, you're...probably the only person in Iacon who does." Her expression faltered slightly at this, and before Ratchet had time to rationalize his response, he lowered his arms and wrapped them tightly around Io's waist.

Io sighed and rested her head against the base of his collar-plate, her fingers once again exploring his armor, this time the lip of his back-plate...and the antenna that wobbled around above it.

He heard her giggle over his shoulder as she managed to catch the flimsy-and now almost entirely useless-modification, and tweaked it, generating a loud "twang" sound as it was released.

Ratchet smiled and closed his optics, drinking in the sensation, his spark fluttering happily for reasons that he really couldn't understand.

For a time, he just held her, enjoying her proximity and the occasional chuckle as she continued to amuse herself.

It made him happy...more happy than he could recall.

"Ratchet?" He heard her say, softly, almost distracted.

"What?"

"I meant what I said earlier..."

Ratchet blinked rapidly as his processor surged and his mouth opened in surprise though no words emerged.

Io giggled once again, a sound that had become fine music to the old medic's audio receptors. "I know you think that I could do better, perhaps share my affections with someone more my age...but..." She paused and her wings fluttered languidly, a heavy sigh vented from her lips. "Ratchet... I've been involved with so many people over the stellar cycles that I've lost count."

Immediately Ratchet tightened his arms around her as his core programming responded to her distress with yet another guardian response. Not that there was anything wrong with the response; it just took some getting used to.

A rumble of contentment shook her frame and concomitantly, a feeling of contentment filled his spark. "As far as all of them were concerned, I was... just a provider; a peddler of fantastic license. They cared about me only as long as I could provide them with entertainment and nothing else beyond that." She shook her head. "Even at the academy...as an Autobot...I was only tolerated because of my intelligence, and we both know how that turned out." Another heavy sigh. "I'm sick of it. Sick of being used."

His programming continued to thunder away.

"Surely... surely Crossarm wouldn't..." Ratchet tried, but it was hard to push back his autonomic reactions.

"Oh, don't even get me started on him," She growled. "He's the worst of the lot-selfish, overbearing, misogynistic, jealous of his technical superiors-the epitome of everything I've come to hate in others, 'Bots or Cons." She added hurriedly. "His...dare I say... bestial way of thinking... that's what I'm trying to leave behind... to distance myself from."

Slackening her arms a bit, she met Ratchet's still somewhat conflicted if not completely flabbergasted stare. "But then... there's you." A broad, yet slightly mischievous smile erupted across her lips. "And no matter how much hate I feel toward those that have used me over the stellar cycles, I think of you..." She reached up and lightly trailed her claws along his helm. "And... I feel a wonderful sort of contentment in my spark."

Ratchet blinked rapidly as a fluttering sensation rippled through his chest and his mouth opened slightly in surprise.

Io giggled at his response.

Suddenly embarrassed, the old medic closed his mouth and averted his optics.

"You see, that's what's different about you... and you don't even realize it." Io said softly.

"What?"

Io smiled. "That. Everything about the way that you treat me. Your words, your mannerisms... you treat me with respect, as an equal." Suddenly, her expression darkened. "Very few others, Autobot or Decepticon, have ever shown me such consideration." She paused and pulled him closer. "I find that very commendable..." She paused and smirked. "Not to mention attractive."

_Puh-leeze_, he wanted to say, but not only would that spoil the mood, it would suggest he thought she was lying-he didn't for all that it was hard to accept-and, he had barely gotten over the last thrashing.

Io smiled evilly as if in understanding... or confirmation. "So...I asked you before if you trusted me. You said "yes," so I'll hold you to that...and ask that you trust my judgment."

Ratchet could do nothing else but shake his head, hold her at arm's length, his hands clasping her shoulders, and finally give voice to the thoughts that had been plaguing him for so long. "But what about your future?" He demanded, lowering her to the ground.

"Look at what you've done here at the clinic, the strides that you've made in energon research...you have potential! You could be running your own lab, someday! And you can't do that here! I can't give you that. All I could do would be to just..." Ratchet's voice faltered, and he lowered his head. "I would just hold you back."

For a moment, Io said nothing though her intense cobalt optics flared briefly as she considered his words. Then, resting her hands atop his, she said. "Perhaps you should stop worrying about my happiness and focus more on your own."

Ratchet's head snapped up and his brow-ridges drooped in confusion. "W-what are you...?" He began, but Io cut him off with a shake of her head.

"Despite what you may think, I'm happy here with you, much more so than I've been in a long time." She replied with a wistful smile. "Yes, my career might benefit more from a high-tech lab, but that's not what I want." Taking his hands in hers, she continued. "My choice is to remain here, as your shield...and as your partner. But you..." Again, the femme moved closer, an action which coaxed Ratchet to kneel so he could better interact with her. "You're the epitome of compassion." She began softly, resting her palms against his laterals. "You care so much, give so much of yourself to others that you've become an island...and every time you help someone else at the expense of yourself, you drift further and further away from what it is that makes you happy." She smiled and leaned into him, resting her helm against his medial plate. "It's a commendable trait... but to what end? Where does it stop? How can your happiness ever grow when it's constantly being covered over by the needs of others?"

She raised her head and her glowing cobalt optics stared straight into his. "What's the first rule of Triage?"

Ratchet blinked rapidly. "Repair the medic."

Io nodded. "Repair the medic so that the medic, in turn, can repair others. If the medic forgoes his own well-being so that he can dive right into the thick of things, he may hurt his patients more than he actually helps them... to say nothing of himself." The femme smiled sadly. "Independent of any remorse you still feel over Gamma, your reclusiveness is self-initiated. You lock yourself away in your lab so that you can fret over engineering problems, or brush up on the latest literature so that you can treat others more effectively. All commendable, but inevitably self-destructive." Again, Ratchet felt her claws against his helm, and sighed as she used the armor for leverage, pulling herself closer to him, bringing her face-plate irresistibly closer to his.

It prevented him from escaping.

Smiling, the femme brushed his lips with the side of her thumb. "You deserve to be happy."

"So do you," He said softly.

"And I as I said before, I am." At this she smirked up at him playfully. "But are you?"

Ratchet's optics widened.

For reasons that his overloaded processor couldn't really explain, her simple question lodged within his mind and resonated, churning his thoughts into a veritable slag-heap of unintelligible nonsense. Despite this, however, one emotion still managed to break its way through... something that he might have dismissed as nonsensical just a few stellar cycles ago.

_Contentment._

The old medic smiled down at Io and tightened his arms around her waist.

Io giggled softly. "Well?"

"Yes." Ratchet whispered, leaning forward so that their helms could touch, nose-plate to nose-plate. As his optics fluttered and closed, he felt Io's fingers leave his helm, slowly tracing his neck plating and mantle. Eventually, she brought her hand to rest against his medial plate, just above his spark chamber, a gesture that could only be called a Cybertronian kiss.

Ratchet smiled and adjusted his right arm so that he could return her affections, and as his hand made contact with the mesh of her medial plate, he began to feel the tingle of a sensation that he had never believed he could experience.

Which, of course, was exactly the same moment that a sharp, mocking voice called out over his open com-link frequency, effectively shattering the mood.

"Ratchet! Optimus may be a patient 'Bot, but I for one will not tolerate such a delay!"

"That voice," Io grimaced. "Is that...?"

"Prowl," Ratchet replied before bringing his finger to his helm. "I apologize for the delay, but..."

"I don't want your excuses, Ratchet." Prow's voice hissed. "Prime ordered you and your shield to the Hall of Records over six breems ago. With the lull in the war, and the sudden cessation of your regular duties in light of last night's breach of conduct, your schedule should be _quite_ open. You have no excuse for tardiness!"

*Primus, he sounds exactly Crossarm, except that he's got a larger rod up his... *

*Io!* Ratchet interrupted. He did his best to exude authority, but given the short bark of laughter that escaped his lips as he chided her, he only prompted her to another line of private mocking. Eventually, he fixed her with a stern stare that practically screamed "Stop it. You're not making this any easier."

She quieted though her lips still registered a sly smirk.

"I'm sorry for the delay. We will be at the Hall of Records shortly."

"We'll see." Came the curt reply. "Prowl out."

The com-link clicked off and Ratchet vented a sigh of relief.

"You know..." He said, directing what he hoped was a stern look in Io's direction.

The femme crossed her arms over her chest and smirked up at him. "Tell me you didn't enjoy it."

Ratchet returned the expression. "Perhaps..." He grinned.

Io's smirk deepened. "So, to the Hall of Records, then."

Ratchet nodded and Io held out her hand in invitation.

Optics widening, the old medic paused, reached forward, hesitated as a rogue thread flitted through this processor, and finally accepted her hand, squeezing it lightly between his fingers.

Io smiled and returned the pressure and the two of them strode quickly across the Promenade toward the walkway that would take them to the lower levels.

* * *

Ratchet's voice faded in a series of soft, reverberating echoes that bounded, lightly across the consoles and platforms of the silo's common room.

As he refocused on his colleagues, he was surprised to see them all sitting in a semi-circle around him, necks strained forward attentively. Even their human charges seemed to be enjoying the story-Miko especially stared up at him with a slightly more subdued iteration of her "fan-girl squeal" expression-and after several moments of silence, she all but shouted. "So what happened next?"

"What do you mean, 'what happened next?'" Ratchet replied gruffly, repeating her words with a bit of his usual attitude. "You asked for a story detailing how Io and I became partners." He shook his helm and gestured dismissively with one of his hands. "I said my piece, and that's that; end of story."

Miko rocked back as if someone had struck her. "But...that can't be the end. There _has_ to be more."

Her words ended with the hint of whining.

Ratchet shook his head, and began to prepare himself, mentally, for a verbal altercation with the young human, but a sudden cacophony of pleading voices, all spoken at once, compelled him to stop and reconsider.

"What about the Orsis Incident? I want to know what happened!"

"Bwwweeeep Woo-oop! WWWWWeeeerttt VVVVViiit!"

"How does Crossarm factor into all of this?"

"Did Optimus yell at you for damaging Maccadam's?"

"I want to know more about Io!"

"Who's Prowl? He sounds like a jerk."

Ratchet leaned back on his crate and stared down at the youthful muddle with wide optics, surprise plain on his face-plate. "You... you all really want me to... continue?"

He was flabbergasted.

An enthusiastic "yes" rocked the silo. Miko and Rafael even jumped to their feet and ran up to Ratchet's trods so that they could look up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

In all of his wildest dreams he had never expected such a reaction.

They actually cared. And not just out of a childish curiosity.

Ratchet suppressed a smile.

To relate the whole story was... well, in his optics, it amounted to nothing less than honoring Io's memory. It gave credit to her actions and maybe, just maybe... they would see it just as he did, a vindication of her defection.

"I...suppose I could tell you the rest." Ratchet mused, thoughtfully. "Though you'll have to add another full day to your payment."

Miko and Raphael laughed excitedly and exchanged a high-five. "Consider it done, doc-bot!" Miko replied, enthusiastically, even as she reclaimed her original perch atop Bulkhead's trod.

Raphael smiled up at the old medic through his red-rimmed glasses, his eyes bright.

Ratchet couldn't help but return the expression.

If not for anyone else, for Raphael. The boy... no the human prodigy that for some reason seemed to look up to him as a sort of father figure...even though they were both completely different species.

His spark fluttering happily for the first time in a while, Ratchet closed his optics, opened the relevant files and delved back into the vivid stream of memory data.


End file.
